


Krent Fahliil Los Staadnau, Ahrk Taazokaan Los Daanik

by Wagontrain



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Family, Fantastic Racism, Female Friendship, Gen, Retribution, The Green Pact, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagontrain/pseuds/Wagontrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discretion kept Lonelily alive through a lifetime of Thalmor oppression, but the threat of Alduin’s return demands a Dragonborn without subtlety or mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“The trick with these old Nord traps is to watch out for the pressure plates,” Fennick whispered, pointing to the raised slab of stone on the floor. Lonelily nodded, feigning interest. Despite what Fennick thought, she’d figured out most of the Nords’ clever or ‘clever’ tricks weeks ago. She’d paid his mildly ridiculous guide fee more in case something went wrong than for any sort of imagined expertise.

Lonelily crept after him, stepping carefully over the pressure plate. The tomb was silent but for the faint susurrations of air, barely enough to stir the cobwebs. It was like the other Nord tombs she’d visited over the past several days: decrepit, occasionally patrolled by wandering corpses, and _cold._

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Fennick asked, pointing to a set of ornate and ancient clay plates laid out before one of the crypts. 

“They’ll do,” Lonelily murmured, crouching down to get a better view. First Era, without question. Nothing particularly special about them, other than their having survived sitting on the ground in a crypt for the past two thousand years. Still, she knew several collectors in Hammerfell who would pay quite a lot for ‘antique Nord heirloom place settings.’ The collectors’ gullibility easily sextupled the value of the plates. She wrapped the plates in a wool blanket, packing them into her bag.

Fennick glanced around the corner. “I think we’re close to the tomb’s central chamber,” he whispered. “The old Nords venerated their Jarls, or sometimes the cultists who worshipped the dragons in ancient times. The chambers they build are incredible to see.”

Lonelily rolled her eyes. She’d made her way to the center of several tombs already, and was very familiar with how the Nords worshipped their leaders…and their propensity towards burying those leaders with legendary, valuable weapons. “Lead the way,” she said.

The central chamber was huge, with high ceiling and ornate stone carvings lining the walls. A throne dominated the far end of the room, a withered corpse slumped over in its seat. Lonelily squinted at the weapon laid across the corpse’s lap: Heartcleaver, a weapon whose legend had come to outshine the Jarl who had wielded it. She felt the corner of her lips quirk. That weapon alone was worth enough septims to the museums in Cyrodiil for Lonelily to live comfortably for a year.

“This is incredible,” Fennick breathed, gawking at the chamber’s stonework. “Can you imagine it? In its heyday? What it must have been like to walk these halls with the heroes of old?”

“Fantastic, I’m sure,” Lonelily agreed absently. While Fennick wandered down the room gawking at the architecture, she scanned the walls. No burial coffins, and only a few horizontal burial slits. Not many opportunities for surprises, which she preferred.

“I have to admit I was surprised a Bosmer would be interested in Nord history,” Fennick called back to her. “With the troubles I’ve heard of more and more Nords seeking out our past, but never an elf.”

“All history appeals to me,” she replied. It was true, for the most part. She’d done considerable research in Cyrodiilic libraries to collect clues as to the locations of valuable artifacts like Heartcleaver. “Say, what’s that? Across the body’s lap?” 

“An ax of some sort,” Fennick said, peering close. His curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped towards the throne. “It looks exquisitely made…” he cut himself off with a gasp as the corpse looked up abruptly at him, eyes glowing a baleful azure. “Ah! Look out!” Fennick stumbled back, drawing his sword as the draugr rose to its feet. “Don’t worry, Lonelily, I’ll protect…Lonelily?” He wasted a moment looking around, but the elf was nowhere in sight. The draugr raised Heartcleaver, and in a moment he was fighting for his life.

Lonelily lay in one of the horizontal burial slots watching the Nord fight. She’d learned in her first few encounters, as Fennick was learning now, that the draugr were formidable opponents. She glanced at the corpse crammed into the slot next to her, silently willing it to remain inert.

Fennick swung hard, cutting a deep wound into the draugr’s chest. The undead stumbled back, its decayed features twisting into a sneer before it opened its mouth. “ _Fus…ro dah!_ ” Lonelily’s eyes flared as Fennick flew back as if struck, tumbling across the floor. The draugr advanced, Heartcleaver shattering the stones of the floor as it struck at his feet. 

_That’s different,_ she thought.

Fennick got to his knees, his blade held above him in desperate defense, but Lonelily knew he was a dead man. Just as well; it saved her the trouble of paying him the rest of his fee. The draugr brought Heartcleaver down once, twice, and on the third blow the weapon lived up to its name. 

With a desultory growl the draugr turned away from the bloody mess Fennick had left, searching for Lonelily. She waited until the thing’s back was turned before pouring herself to the ground and readying her bow. Her arrow struck between its shoulder blades, and as it spun with a snarl she put another arrow into each of its glowing blue eyes. It bellowed, raising Heartcleaver and charging. 

The weapon slammed into the stone wall behind her, scant inches from Lonelily’s head. She rolled away, pulling a scroll from the pocket on her thigh. “Run,” she hissed, unleashing the magic bound up in the vellum. The draugr fell back and _turned_ , running from her with the closest an undead monster could feel to fear. Lonelily took to her feet again, drawing and firing arrows into the draugr’s fleeing form until it finally stopped moving.

She pulled Heartcleaver from its grip, grunting at the weight of the heavy weapon. Lonelily dragged it with her to Fennick’s body, searching his corpse for the purse of coins she’d paid him to lead her down into the tomb. She found that and more; a handful of lock picks, a small gem and a letter addressed to some woman wrapped in the chain attached to an amulet of Mara. “Thanks for your help,” she said, pocketing the amulet and letting the letter fall away into the slowly-spreading pool of Fennick’s blood.

*

Lonelily found the tomb’s ‘hidden’ escape tunnel near the throne with almost no effort at all, emerging into the frigid night’s air of Falkreath Hold. It took only a moment staring up at the stars above to find south, and the bright moons overhead lit her way through the forest. It was a long walk back to her hideaway and she was shivering from the cold before she arrived home. “Worthless, frozen Skyrim,” she cursed under her breath as she descended into the cave she’d claimed as her own. She lit the braziers on either end of the small cave, letting the tightly-wrapped bundles of alcohol-soaked cloth catch and warm the cozy space. 

Heartcleaver clanged loudly as it fell atop the pile of artifacts Lonelily had collected. She surveyed the items with an appraising eye: to the right people, she could live very, very well for quite some time…and she wasn’t even close to running out of tombs in Skyrim to plunder. Whatever chaos the Empire and Nords were inflicting on each other, it was hugely useful to her in distracting those who might ordinarily object to her profiteering. 

Lonelily placed a skillet over one of the braziers, dropping hunks of venison onto the hot metal. She stripped out of her armor quickly, trading it for thick robes of wool and fur and seating herself on her bedroll. With deft motions she unbound the braids along the sides of her head and shook her hair free. _Skyrim,_ she decided, _is a vile place._ The people were stupid, the frozen air hurt her chest and even the forests here felt hostile in a way that even the deadliest grottos of Valenwood never had.

The venison began to sizzle, and Lonelily stabbed a portion. While not _forbidden_ by the Green Pact, cooking meat was usually avoided by those who kept the old ways. Better to appreciate what was taken as it was created. _Another concession._ she scowled, gnawing at the meat. 

She plucked up a letter with her free hand; a correspondence from one of her patrons in Hammerfell, written on disgusting paper. She held it up to the flickering firelight with two fingers: _Much interest in a Nord artifact. Second era axe wielded by Ysgramor in his campaign to eliminate the elves in Skyrim. The weapon is shattered into many fragments, will require some effort to track down. Ysgramor a venerated figure among some Nords. Expect triple your normal retrieval fee in compensation for difficulties._

Lonelily smiled, licking blood and juices from her lips. Stealing the prized weapon of a barbaric war hero would be a complicated challenge. This would take more planning than just using a Nord as bait.

*

The tavern Lonelily stepped into was cold, dark and dirty; more or less what she’d come to expect from a Nord hovel. Its name -“Dead Man’s Drink”- probably passed for clever among the citizens of Falkreath. She surveyed the room carefully; a dozen Nords were scattered around, most too drunk on fermented plants to make trouble for her. A group of five near the fire watched her warily, and Lonelily returned the stares as she sat at the bar; some local royalty or whatever the Nords had, she decided. He didn’t seem concerned with her, and Lonelily certainly didn’t give a damn about him.

It took a minute to shed the two hooded cloaks and thick woolen scarf she habitually wore. Lonelily knew the Nords laughed at her behind her back, thick-skulled fools. Every one of them was as heartless as the frigid wasteland of their homeland. The weak heat of the tavern’s fire warmed her skin, if only a little, and Lonelily flagged the barmaid down with a raised finger. “Mutton,” she ordered. “Milk if you have it.”

“Mutton and milk?” the woman asked, amused. “Sure you won’t have mead?”

“No. Mutton and milk,” Lonelily repeated flatly. 

The barmaid left with a shrug, muttering “Elves and their baby drink,” under her breath as she went. Lonelily glanced around the tavern angrily. Her contact -an Argonian named Spear-Catches-Leaf- was nowhere to be seen which boded poorly for his being able to explain where this Ysgramor’s axe was hidden away. _Unreliable lizard._ A scowl creased her brow. _As useful as this impending civil war is, it may be time to move on._ Even odds the Argonian spotted an Imperial solider and ran scared. 

Or froze to death. That was always a danger for the lizards in Skyrim.

The Empire and rebels could have their petty squabbles for all Lonelily cared. There was still plenty of wealth to be plundered from the forgotten corners of Skyrim, but that was wealth that would still be there after the conflict settled a bit. High Rock would be safer. Even Hammerfell and its occasional Thalmor aggressions would be safer.

A gust of cold and angry murmuring behind her warned Lonelily of new visitors to the tavern. She shifted in her seat, glancing over her shoulder and scowled. Three Altmer, a Justiciar and two soldiers, examined the room disdainfully with noses held up in the air. Hatred flared in Lonelily’s gut as she watched the Justiciar look over every person in the room, searching for anything out of order.

The barmaid dropped a plate of gristly mutton in front of Lonelily. The milk had apparently been forgotten. “What do you want?” the barmaid demanded of the Altmer. Lonelily’s respect for the Nord grew just a bit; anyone who hated the Altmer on sight couldn’t be _entirely_ bad.

“We seek to enforce the Thalmor’s treaty with the Empire,” the Justiciar said haughtily. “Heretical Talos worshippers. Do you know of any to report?”

“No. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” The barmaid spat on the floor. “Bunch of elves don’t dictate to us about religion.”

“Your Emperor disagrees,” the Justiciar smirked.

For a moment Lonelily thought about staying quiet, but that madness only stayed with her for a moment. “You know, I think she’s right,” she spoke up, sing-song cheer forced into her voice. “Why, Talos is important to the Nords. A mortal who ascended to godhood? He’s an inspiration to everyone!” The spritely tone came to her manner easily; any Bosmer knew reflexively how to speak plaintively to their masters. 

The Justiciar's eyes slitted, and behind him his guards turned towards her. “That is a…dangerous point of view, Bosmer,” he said. “One I’d expect from the Nords, but your kind is usually far more…obedient.”

Lonelily feigned a nervous smile back at that. “Of _course_ mi’lord, I don’t mean to be a bother at all, sir.” She turned back to her mutton, carving off a piece with her knife. “I’m sorry, sir, please forgive me.”

“Perhaps if your little head wasn’t filled with moss, you wouldn’t have to beg.” To his guards: “It seems we have indeed found a heretic. Bring her along for interrogation.” Lonelily’s smile stayed fixed on her face, even as her fingers tightened around the grip of her knife. 

“Stand back from her.”

The Nord royal rose to his feet, the rest of his party rising with him. “Ulfric, this isn’t worth our time. Let the elves play their game,” one of his men muttered. 

“No,” the one called Ulfric shot back. “I’ve had enough of the Thalmor and their presumption. You’ll leave here now in peace, or be dragged out.”

“Well.” The Justiciar turned away from Lonelily to face the Nord. “More heretics.” He flexed his hand, lightening arcing between his fingertips. “Easily disposed o-” 

His threat ended with a pathetic gurgle and Lonelily drew her knife across his throat, spilling blood across his robes as he collapsed. His guards gaped, wheeling back to face her, but Lonelily was already in motion, jabbing the knife into the closer guard’s eye. The other guard brought his arm across his body to draw his blade, only to be tackled by two of Ulfric’s men. Lonelily caught a flash of the Altmer’s terrified expression before the Nords beat him to a bloody death.

Lonelily shivered, feeling violent energy draining out of her. Ulfric looked her over, approval in his eyes. “I’ll buy that woman’s meal,” he called to the barmaid.

“Yeah? Will you pay for scrubbing the elves’ blood out of my floors?” she shot back. 

Lonelily stood and gathered her cloaks. _It wouldn’t do to linger near the dead Thalmor._ Her only regret was not being able to fulfill her obligation to the Green Pact. “Save your gold and leave me in peace.”

“You’ve no more love for the Thalmor than I, Bosmer,” Ulfric said, following her to the door. 

“Considerably less, I promise you.” Lonelily pushed past him. “I care little for Nords, as well,” she tossed over her shoulder as she stepped out into the biting cold. The tavern was only a stone’s throw from Falkreath’s gate, and she fumed as she made her way out into the forest. _Spear-Catches-Leaf will have to be dealt with for wasting my time,_ she mused. _Still, not a total loss. Three fewer Altmer in the world._

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she almost - _almost_ \- missed the group of soldiers clustered a ways off of the stone path. Lonelily frowned, trying to divine their intentions. _Imperials, Bretons. A Redguard and an Orc. Not Thalmor, then. Legion. What do they want?_ She crept closer, making no noise at all as she slipped through the brush.

“We know he’s in there?”

One of the Imperials nodded. “Aye, Jarl Stormcloak himself. General Tullius wants him _alive,_ at least long enough to execute him properly. Some Thalmor went in a few minutes ago, but we don’t anticipate them interfering.”

“And what of Ulfric’s powers?” the Redguard asked. “He killed the high king by yelling at him. That does not bode well for us.”

“Speed and ferocity,” the leader replied. “Break his jaw if you can. The Stormcloak rebellion ends tonight.”

 _Best to leave quickly then,_ Lonelily thought, slipping away from the soldiers. _The Nords and the Empire are not my concern._ Still, something nagged at her. _He and his men did fight the Thalmor._ She glanced back at the tavern. _That earns them some consideration. Damn it!_ she scolded herself, already moving.

Lonelily slipped around behind the tavern, finding the back door quickly. She pulled it open and moved past the surprised cook without a word. She burst into the dining room, throwing back her hood. “Stormcloak! Legion soldiers are outside, plotting to capture you!”

“What? How do you…never mind that.” Ulfric swore, bolting to his feet and shouting to his men. “Out the back! Quickly!” But before he made it around the bar the front door splintered, soldiers in Legion armor storming inside. 

“Ulfric Stormcloak!” the lieutenant bellowed, pointing with his mace. “In the Emperor’s name, surrender!”

No one believed for a moment that the Nords would surrender, and in a moment the melee was joined. Lonelily dove behind the bar, scowling as one group of muscle-bound fools fought against the other. “Idiots,” she muttered.

Lonelily had no idea why this Ulfric was important, but the Imperial Legion was determined to take him alive. They’d wrestled him to the ground, a massive Orcsimer struggling to pin him. Ulfric opened his mouth and _shouted_ , his voice slamming into the orc like a physical impact. The Imperial soldiers scattered at the force and Lonelily seized the opportunity to race towards the door. She heard Ulfric fall to the Redguard’s hammer, and almost made it outside when she caught a flash of motion out of the corner of her eye: the lieutenant’s mace, swinging at her face. 

_I despise Skyrim,_ was her last thought before the blow landed, and blackness took her.


	2. Chapter 2

“The end times have come.” 

Heimskr paced before the shrine to Talos, wringing his hands. He’d been like this since news from Helgen had reached them, and nothing Lydia said could shake him from his reverie. Something darker lurked in his anger now; the darkness he had ranted about had finally arrived, and that gave him no satisfaction. “I know, father. A dragon.”

The priest turned on her, spitting: “Not ‘a’ dragon. _The_ dragon. It is a consequence, a punishment. Talos cherished us, and we threw him away! Allowed the Empire to sell our faith to the elves! Our homes, our very lives! They believed themselves above us, and now they know! Now they all know the _truth_ of Nord legend.” He looked to the south, toward Helgen, in despair. “Now we will all die for their blasphemy.” 

Her father was not now the man he had once been. Heimskr had always been passionate, but news of the dragons’ return shook him to his bones. _And you’ll do nothing about it, will you? Why fight when you could preach,_ Lydia thought grimly. “It’s getting late, father. You should sleep.”

“Sleep!” Heimskr snarled. “The chosen of Talos will not _sleep_ through the end of the world!”

“Shut it, old man,” a voice rumbled behind them. Lydia glared over her shoulder: Idolaf Battle-Born stood not ten feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest. “I’ve had about enough of your heretical bluster. The Imperial Legion will take care of the dragons, just like every other petty threat. Nothing to get hysterical about.”

“But Talos…!”

“What did I say about your damned heresy!” Idolaf took three steps forward, hand drawn back to strike the old man down, only to find Lydia in his path. “Out of the way, woman.”

Her tone was perfectly, dangerously level. “You will not raise your hand to my father again.”

“Enough.”

Both Lydia and Idolaf drew back at the low, gravelly voice of Irileth. The Dunmer descended the stairs from Dragonsreach, her ruby eyes flicking back and forth between the Nords. “Idolaf. Whiterun does not condemn a man for who he chooses to worship. The same is not said for one who would do violence to an old man. You would do well to keep you fists at your sides.” Idolaf tried to hold her gaze, but could not. He looked away, and Irileth cleared her throat. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, Irileth,” Idolaf rumbled.

“Good. And Lydia…” she turned to the other woman. “There is worship, and there is proselytizing, and there is raving. Your father verges on the last.”

“I will not be spoken down to by an _elf!_ ” Heimskr roared, pointing an accusing finger at the blue-skinned mer. “I will-”

“Father, stop!” Lydia snapped. “You’ve done enough today. Talos would forgive you a night’s rest.”

Heimskr scowled at that, but relented. “For now. I will return to preach, in the morning.”

Lydia watched him slowly make his way to his home. “I apologize, on my father’s behalf,” she said to Irileth. “He is a Nord, and ancient grudges are difficult to thaw.”

“It seems ancient Nord beliefs are the order of the day,” Irileth allowed. “Your people have legends about dragons, yes?”

“They ruled all Tamriel, in time long ago. Led by Alduin, the Worldeater.”

Irileth pondered this. “What does he want?”

“Want?” Lydia shook her head. “The old tales speak of dragons that subjugated and ruled. They were cruel wyrms who delighted in the suffering of men. Alduin worst of all.”

“A tyrant, then. Tamriel has seen their like.” Irileth said. “But he was defeated in the past; how?”

Lydia shrugged. “Heroes of old, or daedra? I don’t know. And I don’t know who now could face him.”

“I’ve heard much the same from many,” Irileth allowed. “Many who are well-learned, whose ignorance is worrying.” She turned to Lydia. “If these are the last days, I would face them with a sword in my hand and a dragon’s blood in my mouth.”

“Born a Dunmer, raised a Nord,” Lydia said. 

“See to your father, Lydia,” Irileth said. “If the world is to be eaten, I wouldn’t care to leave unfinished business when I next see my ancestors.”

*

Heimskr was passed out on his bed, still clad in his robes and one leg jutting off the side of the frame. Gently as she could, Lydia put him right and pulled a course blanket over his slumbering form. _Glorious death in battle…it may be that you’ve lived beyond those days. Your chance to earn entry to Sovngarde is passed, father,_ she thought. _The gods care little for those who talk prettily._

She padded past him and eased the door open with a slight creak. The night’s air was appropriately frigid, and Lydia felt the small hairs on her bare arms rise. It was a short walk to the Bannered Mare, and Lydia soon pushed her way inside. Uthgerd, the Unbroken, sat on her accustomed stool at the bar. They’d first met almost a year ago, when Lydia’s mead had gone to her head and Uthgerd had been out looking for a fight. Uthgerd challenged her, and through the haze of alcohol Lydia couldn’t think of a reason _not_ to fight her. Their battle resulted in the destruction of several of the Mare’s nicer chairs, Lydia’s arm in a sling for weeks, Uthgerd’s nose being broken out of shape, and the both of them being banned from the Mare until the first of Last Seed. Their rematch later that night ended with considerably fewer injuries, but was no less passionate for it.

“Lydia,” Uthgerd said, raising her tankard. “Come to enjoy the end of the world?”

“Not quite.” Lydia slid onto the next stool. “Helgen’s burning. I don’t plan to sit at the bar and drink when the dragons turn their eyes to Whiterun.”

Uthgerd laughed. “Aren’t you just a brave one? Just going to punch out a dragon, are you?”

Lydia’s voice was brittle. “And your alternative?”

“Sit at the bar,” Uthgerd replied. “And drink. It’s the end, Lydia.”

“We are known for our actions.” Lydia cast a scowl at the other woman. “If Sovngarde is our fate, then we should arrive heralded by the souls of our enemies.”

Uthgerd took a long drink. “I think you’re eager to die.”

“And I think you craven,” Lydia snapped, mocking. “’Unbroken.’”

She could see the other woman’s jaw set, and anticipated a blow. Instead, Uthgerd stared forward, refusing to meet Lydia’s eyes. “I’ll mourn you when you meet your end, Lydia.”

Lydia clenched her fist so hard it shook. She gripped Uthgerd by the shoulder and spun her in her chair, pressing their lips together with desperation more than desire. In Uthgerd’s eyes she found none of the fire that had roared in her before the day she sought to join the Companions. Before the day Uthgerd began proclaiming herself to be ‘unbroken’ to any who would listen, in the hopes that she could convince herself to believe it. “I mourn you _now_ ,” Lydia whispered. “But we’re known for our acts. You. You are known for your acts. You won’t see me again, not unless I find a need for someone to grow fat and weak with.”

*

Lydia woke at dawn in a foul mood. 

Heimskr was already up; she could hear him outside, berating all in earshot for their complacency in the Empire and the Thalmor’s manipulation of Skyrim. Dreams of dragons and blood still echoed in her mind. _Nightmares,_ she corrected herself. _Or visions of war to come._

Lydia struggled into her armor. The straps were easier with someone to help, but she’d learned to manage on her own some time ago. She knelt before the shrine to Talos her father kept in the living area, whispering her prayers. “Talos the mighty, Talos the unerring, Talos the unassailable. Lend your aid to those not yet wise enough to follow you in ascension, raise up a hero for these dark hours.” She frowned. “For these final hours.”

She stepped out into the chill morning air, nodding to her father as he continued his speech. Lydia made her way up the long stairs leading to the fortress of Dragonsreach. From the top she could see not just the town of Whiterun, but the entire Hold and the whole of Skyrim spread beyond. In the distance the tip of High Hrothgar pushed into the clouds. It was a beautiful vista, one that almost made a woman forget about civil war and dragons.

Almost.

“Lydia.” Irileth’s good cheer seemed to be in short supply this morning as well. “We’ve guests coming. You’re to stand in with the honor guard.” The Dunmer cast a critical eye over Lydia’s armor and unkempt hair. “Late night?”

“Just finished some business.” Lydia took her place behind the throne, as Jarl Balgruuf emerged into the audience hall. 

“Well, Irileth? Where are they?”

“The ambassador and her Imperial lackey are being escorted in now,” she replied, offering the Jarl a short bow. 

“Careful, old friend. You wouldn’t want the legionnaire to believe that we are anything less than loyal Imperial subjects, would you?”

“Or worse, the Thalmor,” Irileth shot back. 

Lydia kept her peace as Dragonsreach’s great doors swung open, admitting an Imperial officer, an Altmer and her retinue, and an escort of Whiterun’s own guards. Irileth crossed her arms over her chest, and Balgruuf pointedly remained seated. “Welcome to Whiterun,” he called as they approached. 

“Jarl Balgruuf,” the officer replied, coming to a halt twenty feet from the throne. “I am Prefect Vertius. It is my honor to serve as envoy to our Thalmor allies, and to introduce to you Emissary Elenwen of the Aldmeri Dominion.” Lydia felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise: the ambassador and her retinue were all mages of some sort. She could _feel_ the unnatural energies radiating from them. Were they to attack the Jarl with magic, there was little she could do to defend him. If they became hostile, her only possible answer would be immediate, brutal and ruthless. Anything less and they could mesmerize the Jarl and his guards to do anything they pleased. _Could they have already ensorcelled the prefect?_

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Balgruuf sounded considerably less than charmed.

“Whiterun is such a quant village,” Elenwen replied with a smile. Her golden Altmer skin shone in the morning sun. “You must be quite proud.” 

“Oh, we are. Our guards are second to none, and we’ve the honor of being home to the great Companions.” Balgruuf leaned forward. “Have you had the opportunity to tour Jorrvaskr?”

“We did visit. Unfortunately, the guildmaster was…reluctant,” Elenwen feigned confusion. “Almost as if they had something to hide.”

Vertius glared at the elf. “Jarl Balgruuf. I’ve been tasked with escorting the emissary on a tour of the Holds, as a sign of good will between the Empire and the Dominion. Can I trust in your hospitality?”

“Ah! Hospitality we have in abundance, but surely we are not the most impressive you’ve seen. Solitude, Windhelm, Markarth…these are true cities. Whiterun is merely…” he looked to the emissary. “…a quant village, in comparison.”

“I had concerns, Jarl,” Elenwen replied. “As I’m sure you’re well-aware, the White-Gold Concordat forbade the worship of Talos. We passed a man on the way here who was quite vigorous, not only in his love for the so-called Ninth Divine, but also in his condemnation for my person.”

Inwardly, Lydia groaned. _Father, no._

Elenwen continued. “In accordance with the Concordat, I _humbly_ request that his priest be arrested for his sacrilege. Whether he is imprisoned or put to death is of course up to your discretion.”

Balgruuf turned to Vertius. “Is this your ‘good will?’” he demanded. “This elf suggests that we execute a loyal citizen of the Empire, and what is your response?”

The prefect looked very much like he wished he could disappear. “The Concordat…”

“Yes, the Concordat,” Balgruuf snapped. “I’m well aware of Imperial law, prefect. And I will mete out justice in my Hold as I see fit.” Lydia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. _Thank Talos. He won’t let the elves take father._

“This is quite troubling, Jarl,” Elenwen minced.

“’Troubling’ is an elf dictating Imperial law.” Balgruuf shot back. “You are my guests in Whiterun for the duration of your stay, and are welcome to our amenities. However, if you chose to assault any of my subjects, you may find your stay extended considerable longer than you anticipated.” He thumped his boot against the flagstones. “This keep imprisoned a dragon, once. I think it could contain a number of Altmer. Do I make myself clear?”

“We take your meaning perfectly, Jarl,” Elenwen replied. “With your leave, I believe we’ll be departing for Ivarstead ahead of schedule. I’ve everything I need here.”

Balgruuf dismissed the elf with a wave of his hand. Elenwen bowed, and led her retinue out of the audience chamber. Vertius stayed. “You’re not looking at the larger picture, Jarl.”

“I believe I am,” Balgruuf said. “Perhaps Imperials view submission as a worth-while cost for peace. I’m not so sure I do.” The soldier left at that, shaking his head and muttering angrily.

“Bard,” Irileth called. The singer, a woman named Malukah separated herself from the wall and began to sing. Her voice obscured Balgruuf’s from the departing elves as he beckoned Irileth and Lydia closer.

“ _Alduin’s wings, they did darken the sky. His roar fury’s fire, and his scales sharpened scythes. / Men ran and they cowered, and they fought and they died. They burned and the bled as they issued their cries._ ”

“Thoughts?” he asked.

“It may be that Ulfric has the right of it,” Irileth replied. “Though there was an Imperial officer at their head, that was a Thalmor contingent making Thalmor threats.”

“The Emperor’s lips move, but the elves’ voice speaks,” Balgruuf nodded. “Lydia?”

“These Altmer seek to usurp Skyrim’s sovereignty,” she said. “It is _deceit._ It cannot be allowed. Skyrim belongs to the Nords, now and forever.”

“ _We need saviors to free us from Alduin’s rage. Heroes on the field of this new war to wage. / And if Alduin wins, man is gone from this world. Lost in the shadow of black wings unfurled._ ”

“Ulfric…” Balgruuf sighed. “He is quick to dismiss the good the Empire has done for Skyrim. But this…elves dictating to me in my own hall?” He shook his head. “I need to think. Leave me. And…Lydia?” 

“Yes, my Jarl?”

“Be sure our guests leave the Hold. Safely. And quickly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bard Malukah can be heard at her [YouTube channel](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UjEpw4O-WNI&list=UUS613EogLXE0lTsxyC1cWLA&index=5).


	3. Chapter 3

_Damn the Empire. Damn the Nords. Damn Skyrim._

Lonelily trudged down the forest path. The Imperials took everything from her; her orc bow and chitin arrows, her leathers, and most importantly the furs that kept her warm in Skyrim’s frigid cold. They’d almost taken her head as well, but the intervention of a _dragon_ of all things spared her and put her in the odd position of being grateful to a massive wyrm that had _also_ tried to kill her, just with far less care. _Damn dragons, too._

Lonelily stumbled as she left the last of the trees behind her. She had nothing but rags on her back, the coins and dagger she’d filched from the fools in Riverwood, and a mission. “Warn the Jarl in Whiterun. Tell him what you saw.” The idea vexed her. _People with titles are to be avoided,_ she thought. _No good comes from authority._ Still, if the choice was between freezing to death in these foreign woods and speaking with a potentially-grateful Jarl, she’d take her chances with the Jarl.

A roar sounded overhead, and Lonelily dove into a prickly bush. Far above, a dragon turned a lazy circle in the sky before swooping down towards something far in the distance. _Skyrim has become distinctly hostile. Need to make it back to the cave, collect all the artifacts I can carry, and get out of this province. Let the Nords have their apocalypse. Even Valenwood would be better than this._

She waited a few minutes, but the dragon didn’t take to the skies again. Lonelily extracted herself from the bush and resumed her march towards Whiterun. It didn’t look so bad a place, from what she could see. Wooden supports and thatched roofs peeked over the defensive walls, but the walls themselves were made of stone and left her with the hope that there would be a place she could sleep without sullying herself. 

The guards spotted her at a distance. Lonelily staggered up the long road leading to the town’s gates, enduring their prying stares. When she finally stood before them, it was with her back straight and clad as much in her dignity as her rags. 

“What’s this? A wood elf?” One guard asked the other. 

The second guard laughed. “Aye, looks cold at that. Almost turning blue instead of green.”

“I ha-ha-have news. For your Jarl.” Lonelily cursed her teeth for their chattering. 

“Sorry. The Jarl just met with the elf delegation this morning.” She couldn’t see his face for the helmet, but Lonelily could hear the smirk in the guard’s voice. “He doesn’t have time for stragglers.”

“I come f- I come from _Helgen_ ,” she snapped. “I bring n- _news._ The town’s been burned by a dr-d-dragon.”

That got their attention. The guards shared and unreadable look. “You were in Helgen?”

“Y-y-y-y-yes!”

“Irileth will want to hear.”

“Aye. I’ll take her in.” One of the guards seized Lonelily by the arm, dragging her through the main gate. “Come on now. And mind yourself. I find your hand in my pocket, I’ll cut it off.” Lonelily stumble to keep up his pace. She couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering long enough to retort that her fingers were too numb from the cold to steal the keys from his belt, the coin purse stashed in his right boot or the silver and amethyst ring on his finger. Were the weather warmer, the guard would have left her a much poorer man.

At her escort’s nod the castle guards opened the tall doors, permitting them inside. He led Lonelily down the long hall flanked by banquet tables, the scent of meat wafting from them enough to cause her belly to churn desperately. 

“This one wandered up to the front gates, Irileth. Said she was from Helgen.” The guard let go of her arm abruptly, and Lonelily caught herself before she stumbled. She glared back at him and he muttered low, for her ears: “Just some advice? It’s gonna get cold tonight. Might want to at least cover your delicates.” He turned to go with a cruel chuckle, leaving Lonelily before a scowling Dunmer woman. Her skin was the indigo with the sins of Red Mountain rather than gold with the arrogance of the Summerset Isles, but Lonelily had learned long ago to act with deference before a mer who showed such distain. She knelt low, offering the dark elf her open hands.

“I’ve little time, Bosmer,” Irileth said lowly, her ruby eyes glinting. “Don’t waste it with your pathetic fawning.”

Lonelily clenched her toes hard, the only outward reaction to the other woman’s contempt she allowed herself. “I’ve come from Helgen, mi’lady. A dragon…”

“Destroyed the town, yes.” She turned to the hall’s side chamber and bellowed: “Farengar!” A man in a blue mage’s robe emerged, examining a scroll and appearing vaguely irritated at the interruption. “Tell him.”

“It was huge,” Lonelily explained. “It roared, and fire fell from the sky. Attacked Imperials and the Stormcloak prisoners alike. I think…I think it spoke.”

Farengar nodded at that. “It’s well-known that dragons have language all their own, a language that does not conform to our traditional understanding of speech.”

“Speak plainly,” Irileth demanded. 

“When she says that the beast roared and the sky rained fire, it might be more accurate to say that the dragon _commanded_ the fire. He ordered it to fall, and it did.”

Irileth scowled. “How are we to fight such an enemy?”

“With difficulty, I’d imagine,” Farengar replied blithely. He held his scroll up for Lonelily’s inspection. “Tell me, is this the dragon you saw?”

Lonelily studied the sketch. It was a massive creature with a hide that almost appeared serrated, perched atop a wall and roaring. Even in simple ink, the image radiated malice and cruelty. “Yes. Yes, that’s what attacked Helgen.”

“Then it’s true.” Farengar looked to Irileth. “The dragon that attacked Helgen was the Worldeater. Alduin.”

Irileth swore, low and furious. “And so Nord superstitions doom us. I need information for the Jarl. If the apocalypse has come, we will not simply stand by and wait.”

Farengar beckoned the dark elf back towards his study. “I believe that Alduin would seek to raise his lieutenants, who have lain dead since the Dragon War…” Forgotten, Lonelily took to her feet and followed tentatively behind. 

“Could we interrupt the resurrections? Destroy the bodies before Alduin can reach them?”

“Possible, but we have no way of knowing where they are.” Farengar pointed to a map of Skyrim, towards a location near Whiterun. “I believe there may be a tablet in Bleak Falls Barrow that contains the location of the ancient dragon burial sites.”

“It’s a dangerous thing to risk sending a patrol to the Barrow, when every man and woman is needed in case this dragon returns,” Irileth growled. 

_Plundering artifacts?_ Lonelily thought. “I could go,” she offered.

“You?” The dark elf scoffed at Lonelily’s rags.

“I would need some compensation, of course,” Lonelily said. “Armor and a sturdy weapon would greatly help my chances of bringing back your tablet.” 

Irileth began to object, but Farengar spoke first. “Certainly, of course. Here…” he rummaged through his desk, producing a bag of coins. “More when you return with the Dragonstone.”

Lonelily weighed the bag in her hand, and guessed it had only enough gold to buy her the most basic of equipment. Certainly not enough to get her across the border into Hammerfell or Cyrodiil. _Damn mage. I’ll have to actually bring the damned thing back._ Aloud, she replied: “Of course. I’ll set out at once.”

*

_The Nords have a profoundly twisted sense of respect,_ Lonelily thought, watching the draugr lurch past.

In Valenwood, at least the small hideaways that still kept the faith, Bosmer at the end of their lives surrendered to the great woods. They allowed themselves to become one with nature once again, fulfilling the last vow of the Green Pact. In Skyrim there was no such consideration; great gouges were dug from the earth and filled with the corpses of the ‘honored’ dead, preserved through disgusting rituals. Preserved well enough that they bounded to their feet the moment Lonelily made the slightest noise.

Lonelily watched the undead wander. _No Nords to distract it for me, this time,_ she thought. She’d made it deep into the Barrow, past dozens of draugr -inert or just waiting, she couldn’t tell- through a door opened by a gaudy golden claw before letting her boot scrape the flagstones. The monster turned away and Lonelily let herself breath. The cavern was large enough that she could evade the walking profanity, but... _It could wake others. Best to destroy it now._ She notched an arrow and sighted on the thing’s spine.

The arrowhead erupted from its chest, and Lonelily followed it immediately with four more. The draugr spun in place, only to catch another volley in its gut and skull. It crashed to the ground, and Lonelily glanced around the cavern furtively. No other dead rose at the clatter.

Crouching next to the draugr, Lonelily touched her knuckles to her forehead. “Y’ffre, God of the Forest, know that though I am so very far from home, I keep my pledge.” She slipped the iron dagger from her belt and pushed it into the draugr’s belly, slitting it wide. The stench was foul; not of life and waste but of decay and unnatural elements. Lonelily winced as she pushed her hand into the wound, reaching under the ribs and past the intestines and lungs until she felt the heart. She pulled, hard, tearing the lump of flesh free and holding it up to the flickering torch light. “I keep to the Pact.”

She bit into the heart, forcing a chunk down even as her gorge rose. It wasn’t _natural,_ twisted and tainted by undeath, and abruptly she emptied her stomach across the floor. “S-sorry,” she gasped, wiping her mouth. “Y’ffre, you…you know my soul. I keep to the Pact. This land is _wrong_. I keep to the Pact, I’m sorry.”

Lonelily rose to her feet, turning her back on her embarrassment. Somewhere in this cavern was the Dragonstone, and the sooner she found it the sooner she could abandon this entire forsaken province.

She cocked her head. With the draugr’s heavy steps silenced, Lonelily could make out a faint sound. Words, a chant, coming from the far end of the cavern. Carefully, she picked her way towards the noise. Before her the cavern floor raised in a dais, with a carved wall looming over yet another draugr tomb. _A dragon head?_ she thought, peering at the etching. _Dragonstone, wall with a dragon carved into it…I have no idea how I’m to get that back to Whiterun._ The chanting grew as Lonelily mounted the stairs, and a set of carvings began to glow.

The world went _dark_ and the chant became a chorus. Lonelily fell to her knees, hands clasped over her ears, but the noise pressed down on her relentlessly. “Aah!” she cried. “Y’ffre, I can’t…this place is wrong, I can’t…!”

In an instant her vision cleared, and Lonelily blinked hard. The chanting stopped, leaving her with one word echoing over and over through her mind.

_Force._

_Force._

_Force._

“ _Fus,_ ” she whispered.

The thick stones before her _cracked_ , and Lonelily clapped a hand over her mouth. She felt the sheer power of the word flow through her. _What madness is this?_

The sound reverberated through the cavern, and the lid of the tomb fell aside. The monster that rose was nothing like the others; energy crackled between its fingers and it watched her with spiteful intelligence. Lonelily scrambled for her bow as the undead raised its palm towards her.

Electricity blasted past her, and Lonelily _ran_. She spun as she leapt from the dais, putting an arrow into each of its eyes before she landed. The draugr merely grinned down at her with its mocking rictus. “You don’t even care, do you?” she snapped. As if in response it raised both hands again, and this time she was a moment too slow. Thin tendrils of lightening caught Lonelily’s side, casting her away with a shriek. The draugr descended as she tried to force her numb fingers to grip an arrow. It reached down, seizing the elf by the neck and holding her aloft in its iron grip. The world began to darken again, and Lonelily summoned the last of her breath.

“ _FUS!_ ”

The draugr slammed against the etched wall, nearly breaking at the impact. Gagging for air, Lonelily snatched up dagger and dove at the thing, driving the blade again and again into its chest. When finally it ceased its struggles, Lonelily staggered back. 

“I hate this province,” she hissed.

*

When she wasn’t being dragged along, Lonelily found that Whiterun was almost a pleasant-looking town, once one got past the freezing cold and blasphemous use of wood. 

Lonelily made her way past the markets, absently sidestepping the children that ran underfoot. “’Force,’” she murmured to herself. Nothing. No explosion of energy, no rush of vigor through her. They had the same meaning, force and _fus_. But somehow the other word carried a power beyond speech.

The sky overhead was tinted with dusk, and the shopkeepers packed their stalls for the night. Lonelily eyed an old woman sorting her trinkets and junk into the lockboxes under her stand, a cruel smile curving her lips. “ _Fus,_ ” she murmured.

The old woman cried out as she crashed to the ground, her stall and all her useless trinkets clattering around her. “Fralia! Are you all right? What happened?” one of the guards asked, helping the elderly Nord back up. 

“Thunder?” Lonelily looked up innocently. “Without a cloud in the sky?”

“I’m all right,” Fralia said shakily. Lonelily turned to leave before she could be asked to help clean the mess.

This time the men at Dragonsreach’s doors opened them for her. Lonelily made her way down the long audience hall, carrying before her a slab of stone. “It seems your assistant has returned, Farengar.” _Balgruuf, the Jarl,_ Lonelily realized. The man sitting on the throne could be no other. Irileth silently glowered beside him.

“Indeed,” Farengar said, bustling forward to meet Lonelily. “Give it here, give it here.” He examined the map and the runes carved into the stone. “Yes, yes! This is just as I’d hoped!”

“I found it in the tomb of a powerful and angry draugr,” Lonelily gestured to her right arm; the pauldron and bracers were scorched black, and the flesh between a vicious red of a healing elixir’s consequence. “I’ll take the remainder of my payment now, and be on my way.”

“No time for that, I’m afraid.” Lonelily suspected Balgruuf cared little at all for her intentions. “A dragon has been sighted, near the western watchtower.” _No. No no no._ “You have proven yourself, my friend. I ask now that you join my soldiers in battle against the beast.”

 _Never trust those with power,_ Lonelily thought. _There is no way I am going out into that cold and getting killed by a dragon._ It was impossible to say that though; Balgruuf wasn’t Altmer, but Lonelily suspected he would react similarly poorly if she refused him. “Of course, my Jarl,” she replied sweetly. “I live to serve your wishes.”

“Excellent,” Balgruuf replied. _The fool doesn’t even consider that anyone might defy him._ “Join Irileth and her troops. It will be Whiterun that earns the glory of first victory against the dragons!”

Irileth motioned to Lonelily to follow. “The Helgen dragon,” she said as they descended the stairs approaching Dragonsreach. “How did it fight? From the ground? From the sky?”

“It did land,” Lonelily allowed, “though it breathed fire. Those I saw who attempted to close with it…” Irileth grunted, and Lonelily followed in silence.

A cluster of guards awaited them at the gates. “Ready yourselves!” Irileth commanded. “A dragon has attacked the west watchtower. We are going to put an end to it.”

“A dragon?” one of the guards muttered. “We’re dead!”

“It is a formidable opponent,” Irileth agreed. “But the greater the challenge, the greater the glory! If you want to stay safe within Whiterun’s walls and drink your _milk_ you should. The rest of us Nords will fight, and will triumph!”

The guard had the sense to look chagrined at the challenge. Lonelily watched as the other guards raised a cheer and started for the gate. _’The rest of us Nords’ indeed,_ she thought. _Trimmed your ears so the men would accept you, Irileth? Pathetic._

The Dunmer’s eyes were on her. “Coming, wood elf?” 

“Of course, housecarl.”

They set off under the light of the auroras above, racing down the stone path. Lonelily examined every crevice and rocky outcropping for a place she could hide long enough to get away, but Irileth’s suspicion left her no opportunities for escape. Soon enough, they closed on the pillar of smoke marking the tower and the Dunmer called a halt behind a rude ledge of rock. It was a grim scene: chunks of masonry had been pulled free of the tower and strew about, and the outpost itself was little more than rubble and flame. Lonelily scanned the horizon to the north and the mountain range to the south, but no dragon presented itself.

“I don’t see any dragons now,” one of the guards muttered, “but it’s sure been here.”

“Indeed.” Irileth focused on the tower. “I see movement. Survivors. Get in there, quickly!” Without another word she bolted across the open ground towards the tower, dodging around piles of burning stonework. The guards followed close behind, and Lonelily settled down behind her cover. _Noble fools._

Even from a distance, Lonelily could pick out the shouted conversation. “No! Stay back! It’s returning!” Sure enough the dragon peaked over the mountain top, its wings spread wide as it began to descend on the Nords. _That’s not the dragon from Helgen,_ Lonelily realized. _Wonderful. There actually is more than one._

“Make every arrow count!” Irileth roared, drawing her bow. “Bring that beast down!”

“Where is the elf?” a guard called.

“If she abandoned us, she’ll die by my blade,” Irileth snarled. _Don’t make empty threats, idiot,_ Lonelily thought from her hiding place. _My only wish for you is that the dragon leaves enough behind that your armor is still wearable without too much repair._

The dragon dove low, belching a stream of fire. Irileth and most of the guards leapt to cover, but one of the hapless fools was too slow. His screams were drowned out by the crackle of the flames and the dragon’s vindictive roar. “Attack!” Irileth shouted, and a weak volley of arrows chased the wyrm across the sky. It wheeled back, flying close enough to the ground to seize one of the guards and soaring high before letting him fall carelessly to the ground. _Two dead in less time than it takes to tell._

“Keep fighting, damn you!” Irileth screamed. Lonelily squinted past the glare of the flames: the Dunmer disappeared inside the tower even as the dragon swept over her men’s cover, engulfing two of them in flame. Irileth appeared a moment later atop the tower’s ramparts, her bow abandoned and the glow of lightening visible around her fists even from the distance. _What is she doing?_

Lonelily watched as the dragon rounded for another pass, claws grasping for the guards. As it passed near the tower Irileth threw herself off, catching on the beast’s horns and hanging on for her life. Lightening cascaded from her hands into the dragon’s head and it _shrieked,_ twisting and twitching under the assault. Flight was impossible as its wings spasmed, and the dragon left a long furrow behind it as it crashed to earth.

Irileth picked herself up off the ground, a dozen paces from where she’d been thrown clear. “What more do I need to do?” she bellowed at her lone remaining guard, clutching her broken arm. “For Whiterun! For Skyrim! _Attack!_ ”

The guard charged, warhammer held high, and even as the dragon turned to face him Irileth attacked its scaled flank. They danced around the wyrm, dodging its massive jaws and striking as it exposed itself. In spite of her distain, Lonelily felt something perilously close to respect for the dark elf and the surviving guard. They fought with a ferocity she would never have guessed and for the first time Lonelily realized this dragon wouldn’t reach the sky again.

The battle ended in a brutal moment: Irileth jabbed her sword into the dragon’s eye and called on her Dunmer magic, sending lightening coursing along the blade into the beast’s flesh. The brutalized dragon sagged, dying quietly in the ruins of the watch’s outpost.

“By the gods,” the guard cheered. “That was incredible! Irileth, they can die!”

 _It is very much time to leave,_ Lonelily decided, staying as low as possible as she crept away.

A rumble of thunder rolled over her, and Lonelily risked a look over her shoulder. The dragon’s corpse seemed to catch fire from the inside out, its scales turning to ash and flaking away on the wind. A maelstrom of energy erupted from the skeleton, swirling into the sky before twisting back and enveloping Lonelily. She staggered as the charge _filled_ her, images and thoughts flashing through her mind. _Mirmulnir,_ she realized. _His name was Mirmulnir._

Lonelily blinked as the rush of foreign memories settled into her mind, finding herself sprawled on her belly. She pushed up, only to be slammed back down by a boot hard between her shoulders. “Going somewhere?” Irileth snarled.


	4. Chapter 4

“My Jarl, you…you should have waited for me.”

Lydia paced before Balgruuf’s throne, brows drawn together pensively. It had been a long march following the elves and their Imperial lapdog to Ivarstead, and a fast race back to Whiterun. Lydia was loath to leave the town any longer than she had to, and when she heard that Irileth had gone off to fight a dragon with only a handful of guards it had taken Balgruuf’s command not to go after them.

“You’re exhausted, Lydia,” Balgruuf replied, reclining with feigned ease on his throne. “Trust in Irileth. I’ve seen her fight the impossible before, but I’ve never seen her fail.” His tone was light, but Lydia had served the man long enough to hear the tension. _She will die well. But I would rather that it wasn’t this day,_ Lydia thought, but kept to herself. “I couldn’t risk both of you. If Irileth does fall in battle, I’ll…I’ll still need someone to serve as my housecarl. Especially in these times.”

Lydia glanced up at the ceiling as three blasts of thunder reverberated through Dragonsreach. “ _DOV AH KIIN,_ ” it echoed against the walls. 

“What was that?” she asked as dust fell from the rafters above them.

“The Greybeards…” Balgruuf breathed. “They’ve found a dovahkiin. Calling him to High Hrothgar! One legend to fight another, eh Lydia? ‘Beware, the Dragonborn comes!’”

 _If there truly is a Dragonborn,_ Lydia mused, _maybe there is hope after all._

Down the length of the hall, doors parted to admit Irileth, dragging behind her a slight elf. “My lord!” Irileth bellowed. “Victory is yours!”

Balgruuf took to his feet, and Lydia could feel relief flowing from him. “Irileth. It is good to see you well.”

“Aye. The beast fought hard, to be sure. And this one…” She shoved the other elf ahead of her, sending the Bosmer tumbling to the ground. “This one tried to flee the field.”

Lydia examined the small elf where she strained against the rope binding her wrists behind her. Her skin was tinged green in the manner of a wood elf, and her eyes were shot through with ruby and cunning. The left side of her face was mottled with purple and green bruising, and fresh blood matted her blonde hair. “It seemed a better idea than waiting to die,” she snarled.

“She is a coward, and betrayed your command, my Jarl.” Irileth snapped. “Let us see her dead before dawn rises.”

“Is this true, Lonelily? Did you turn your back?”

The elf growled. “I did not lay down to die when the Thalmor told me to. I did not lay down to die when the Empire told me to. I see no reason to die for some Nord.” 

“That is no longer your choice, elf,” Balgruuf shook his head. “Lydia, prepare the Great Porch. She’ll meet her end there.” 

“Yes, my Jarl,” Lydia seized the elf’s bindings, awkwardly hauling her to her feet. “Come now. Meet your death with more dignity than you met your life.”

Lonelily struggled mightily, but her slender form was no match for the strength of Lydia’s arm. “Tell them how the dragon died, Irileth!”

“Better than you will, coward,” was the only answer Irileth offered.

“His name was Mirmulnir!” Lonelily shouted as Lydia dragged her to the stairs leading to the Great Porch. 

“How…” Balgruuf frowned, turning slowly. “How would you know that?” He looked to Irileth.

“When the dragon died, it…” Uncertainty passed over Irileth’s expression. “I don’t know. The dragon released a sort of fire, and it…flowed into her.”

Lydia gaped, staring down at the woman at her feet. “Dragonborn,” she whispered. _Talos has heard our prayers._

“Aye. Get her up, Lydia, get her on her feet. Free her hands.” Balgruuf shook his head. “Irileth, did you not hear the Greybeards summon? It was her they called for.”

“Her? Your great savior of legend is an elf?”

Lonelily stood straight, rubbing where the rope had chafed her skin. “Savior of legend indeed. And I can’t fight dragons if I’m already dead, now can I?”

“Dragonborn, I am…I am honored to have you in my hall.” Balgruuf bowed. “I name you Thane of Whiterun, in recognition of all you will do. Make your way to High Hrothgar and meet with the Greybeards. They will set your course for defeating Alduin.” Irileth turned a particularly vivid shade of blue, and Lydia caught the hint of a smile curving the wood elf’s lips at that.

“I accept, Jarl Balgruuf,” she made a show of brushing herself off. “And I’ll set out immediately.” 

“Not alone, of course!” Balgruuf replied. “As a Thane, you are entitled to a housecarl. One who will defend you with her life.” He turned to Lydia. “I cannot order you to do this. You are the first of my guard, and the Dragonborn’s path will be fraught with danger.”

 _Cannot order me? Talos, to fight alongside the Dragonborn…! You would have to stop me!_ “There is no greater honor.” Lydia drew her mace, kneeling before the elf and clasping her hands over its hilt. “It is a privilege to serve as your housecarl, Dragonborn. Your enemies are my enemies. I will follow you through frost and storm. I will guard you, and all you own, with my life.” She stayed like that for a long moment, waiting for Lonelily’s answer. When none came, she dared to look up. “My Thane…?”

“Of course.” Lonelily’s face wore an expression of bemused confusion. “Well, I guess we’d…we’d better be off then. Sooner to High Hrothgar, the better.” 

_No time to say goodbye to father,_ Lydia thought. _He would understand._ She fell in behind Lonelily, trying to ignore Irileth’s growing rage. Noble as the Dunmer’s spirit was, she hadn’t been weaned on the tales of the heroes of old. That the Dragonborn was an elf was unexpected to be sure, but stranger had happened. “Lead on, my Thane.”

Lydia followed close behind as Lonelily made her way through Whiterun. The elf moved with grace and awareness; she watched everything and everyone around her. _A warrior-born to be sure._

“We’ll need provisions,” Lonelily commented as they passed the stalls and stores of the Plains district. “Food, water, potions, arrows…Hrothgar is cold, isn’t it?”

“It’s the highest point in Skyrim, my Thane.”

The Bosmer shivered. “Furs and blankets as well, then. Can you purchase these items?”

Lydia nodded. Most anything could be found in Whiterun’s markets. “Of course.”

“Good!” Lonelily favored her with a smile. “I’ve some goodbyes to say before we move on with saving Skyrim. Meet me at the front gates in, say, an hour?”

“As you command, my Thane.” Lonelily turned at headed down hill, wrapping her cloaks tightly around herself. _How can she be cold? The rivers still flow freely, without ice._ Lydia shrugged and pulled open the door to the general store. “Belethor! I have need to supplies.” 

The Breton was quick with his smile -too quick, truth be told- but his claims that he could provide nearly anything were more than idle boast. Lydia examined the items spread across the counter: bundles of dried elk meat, a stack of hardtack, several apples, potions to heal, protect against magic, and survive elements, a quiver of steel-tipped arrows, a tent, two bedrolls and the warmest furs Belethor had. With some work, Lydia packed it all into an oversized rucksack. She tightened the bag’s straps, and eyed one last item on the shelves behind the counter. _Lonelily has enough difficulty with the weather._ “Those wool socks, as well.”

She stepped outside, shouldering the weight of the rucksack. _Heavy, but not unreasonable. I can run with this._ She had maybe a half hour until Lonelily wanted to leave, and Lydia made her way to the town’s gate to wait for her. The darkness was just beginning to wane, with dawn’s light creeping across the sky. Whiterun began to stir with morning activity, and Lydia settled in to wait the last thirty minutes before they could depart on the quest to save Tamriel.

Fifty minutes later she began to worry.

Lonelily knew where the gate was, and Lydia rejected the idea that she could have gotten lost. Perhaps she’d gone to collect some supplies of her own at the Drunken Huntsman. Perhaps she’d returned to Farengar to learn more of the history of the Greybeards and the Dragonborn. Perhaps her goodbyes were taking longer than expected; it could certainly be hard to leave those you love…

Lydia’s brows knit together. _Loved ones? She only arrived in Whiterun yesterday. Who could she possibly have to…oh, no._

Lydia burst through the gatedoors, racing to the ramparts and frantically searching the distance in every direction. She spun in place and demanded of the guards standing bewildered at the doors. “An elf. Short, bundled in capes. Her face was bruised. Have you seen her?”

“Aye, Lydia. Perhaps an hour ago?” 

“Which way did she go?” Lydia snapped.

“To the stables, first. Then west, as fast as her horse could take her.”

 _Damn it!_ Lydia ran down the approach to Whiterun, her sack slowing her more than she liked. The stable boy saw her coming and called for his father Skulvar. “A horse!” she cried.

“What’s the rush, Lydia?” Skulvar asked, placing a saddle on the back of one of his horses.

“The elf you sold a horse to. I need to catch her.”

He tightened the saddle in place, and Lydia wasted no time mounting the beast. “Is she a criminal?”

“No, she’s…” _…our only hope to survive the dragons, and she’s fleeing!_ “She’s important.”

“Ride strong,” Skulvar said. Lydia urged the horse out of the stable and set off at a breakneck pace.

 _Idiot! She smiled and said what you wanted to hear and you believed her! An hour’s head start? She could go anywhere. Be anywhere._ Desperation clutched at Lydia’s chest, but she marshaled herself. _Irileth said the elf was a coward. Lonelily said that she wouldn’t die for the Nords. She’s leaving Skyrim, but to where? The Empire tried to execute her, so I think she’d avoid Cyrodiil and High Rock…_ Lydia envisioned her homeland, and struggled to remember the provinces that border it. _Hammerfell,_ she realized with a wolfish grin. _She’s going to Hammerfell. And if she’s making that journey, she’ll have to go through Falkreath._

Dawn broke over Skyrim, and Lydia rode on.

*

“She’s an _elf_ on a _horse_. How many of those do you see in a day? In a week! She didn’t stick in your mind at all?”

The Falkreath guard shrugged. “I’m sorry, sera. She passed through town to be sure, but where she went after she left…”

“South. She went south.” Lydia started her horse forward, only to find an Argonian blocking her path. 

“You seek the lone lily, yes?”

“You know her?” Lydia peered down at the lizard man from atop her horse. His scales were the pale green of grass gone to frost, with strange frills arching away from his head. 

The Argonian hissed his words. “Very hurried she was, yes. Asked for a little meat, then off to her hideaway to collect her things.”

“And where would that hideaway be?” 

The Argonian merely shrugged. “Spear-Catches-Leaf does not betray confidences,” he said. 

“’Spear-Catches-Leaf’ wouldn’t have approached me at all if he wasn’t prepared to do exactly that,” Lydia shot back. “What’s your price?”

“Your need is great, yes? And your quarry near, yes? Surely that horse is soon outside your concern.”

“You’re a bandit.” Lydia glared. “Show me this hideaway and the horse is yours.”

They left Falkreath and headed southwest, towards Hammerfell. A ways down the road, Spear-Catches-Leaf pointed to an ugly jagged tear in the earth. “Halldir’s Cairn. The lone lily paid good gold to empty the crypt below. Many angry draugr there, yes.”

Lydia dismounted, handing the reins over to Spear-Catches-Leaf. “Know that if you have lied to me, nowhere in Tamriel will be safe for you.”

She pulled her mace free from her belt and tentatively followed the downward slope into the cave. Spear-Catches-Leaf didn’t spare her a second thought, hauling himself up on the horse and riding back towards Falkreath. Lydia shrugged off the heavy rucksack and laid it down just inside the cave, proceeding forward with shield held in front. The tunnel opened into a round chamber, with crypt door cut out of the wall to the left, a pile of ancient Nord weapons, armor and pottery to the right and a mound of blood-stained rocks in the center. _By Talos, what has she been doing down here?_

Air shifted and Lydia abruptly realized the other presence in the room. She turned to see Lonelily poised a dozen feet behind her against the wall, bow in hand with arrow notched and bowstring drawn tight. _I must have walked right past her._

“You are not nearly as quiet as you think you are,” the elf commented drily. “I trust you purchased the supplies?”

“My Thane,” Lydia replied. “The supplies I brought are for cold weather. Furs will be of little use in the dry heat of Hammerfell.”

“I was going to ask how you found me, but…” Lonelily breathed deep. “You smell of swamp. Been speaking with Spear-Catches-Leaf, have you?” 

Lydia glowered at that. “I understand my Thane isn’t native to Skyrim. Perhaps you were merely turned around as to the direction of High Hrothgar.”

“No, I think I understand my directions very well.” Lonelily’s arm remained perfectly still, despite the strain of keeping her bowstring taut. “Here, there are dragons and now at least three other factions who would see me dead. In Hammerfell, there’s relative anonymity and freedom. My direction is clear.”

“You’re the Dragonborn,” Lydia retorted. “Your destiny is to battle Alduin, to save Skyrim.”

“When I was eight an Altmer told me that my _destiny_ was to serve the pleasure of high elf soldiers. I rejected his destiny and I reject yours.” She raised her aim, and Lydia found herself staring down the length of an arrow shaft. “I’m leaving this wretched province, and I’ve no problem leaving your corpse behind me if you interfere.”

Lydia thought about how quickly an arrow could fly and how quickly she could raise her shield, and didn’t like the results. _She can’t leave. If the Dragonborn abandons her calling…what happens then? Will Alduin rule again, unopposed?_ “You hate Skyrim. You hate the cold, you hate me. Why did you come here in the first place?”

“I’d hoped to turn a profit,” Lonelily nodded to the pile of artifacts without breaking her gaze. _Smart enough not to let me rush her._ “So many valuable things stashed in the dark places of Skyrim, forgotten by all except dusty tomes, the undead…and my patrons.”

“You plunder our ancestors.”

“They weren’t using any of it anymore.”

 _The Dragonborn is a woman of treachery. Our salvation lays with one who cares for nothing but gold. Talos, in this you are cruel._ Lydia lowered her shield, still conscious of the arrow aimed at her eye. _Still. I am known by my actions, and I will not be known as an oathbreaker._ “You are my Thane. I swore to follow and protect you.”

“I’ve no use for a pet,” Lonelily replied lowly. 

The retort stung, but Lydia stood her ground. “No, but you need a guide. Should I believe that you chose to live in this hovel by choice?”

Lonelily sneered. “Better than your blasphemous Nord construction.”

“You say you’re here to make gold stealing relics. Fine. But you’ve hardly a Nord’s knowledge of the land. I can show you ruins you’ve never imagined. I’m sure you know of Labyrinthian, but do you know of the crypt of Warlord Gathrik, who seized Solstheim from the Dunmer in the first era? Of Volunruud, final resting place of Kvenel the Tongue?”

“The descriptions in my scrolls have been…vague,” Lonelily admitted. “Why would you help me?”

“You are my Thane,” Lydia repeated. _And if it keeps you here, in Skyrim and closer to your destiny, then those artifacts are a fair price to pay._

Lonelily’s draw arm relaxed, and she considered the other woman. “I don’t believe you. But I can also use you. All of that…” she gestured towards the pile of weapons and pottery with her loose arrow, “…is too big to transport easily. I suspect that _true_ sons and daughters of Skyrim would object rather violently to my business if I tried to just hire a cart.”

Her tone was mocking, and Lydia raised her chin to meet the scorn. “As you say, my Thane.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Nord was endearing in her earnestness, but if she thought Lonelily was setting one foot on High Hrothgar she would find herself quite surprised.

Lydia had proven to be a surprisingly useful resource on the subject of tombs, crypts, barrows, and ruins. Compared to her ventures into what was left of Morrowind and the Black Marsh, Lonelily began her search for artifacts in Skyrim with very little information about the province. She found very little about the history and geography of the region in the libraries of Cyrodiil, and originally assumed that the Nords were too frost-addled to maintain decent literature. In talking with Lydia however, she realized that they passed down most of their tales and myths through oral traditions rather than writing books. It was barbaric and backward, and small wonder she couldn’t find anything useful in her research.

They took a cart to Windhelm, then set out on foot west towards Ironbind Barrow. The possible treasures buried with the Nord who fought in both Skyrim and Solstheim were too fantastic to ignore, but as they traveled Lonelily’s disquiet grew. _Are the Nords men or beasts to be able to move through snow like this? It’s deep to the knees._ Lydia, for her part, plowed through the snow with the stubbornness of a mule, and a heavy rucksack to match.

“Trudging through this mess is ridiculous,” Lonelily growled. “We’ll make camp here, and wait for the morning sun to melt the snow.”

Lydia paused her relentless pace. “’Morning sun?’”

 _Fool._ “Yes, the sun. The bright orb in the sky?”

“I know what the sun is, but I don’t think it’s going to help.” Lydia scowled. “It won’t be warm enough to melt snow for another several months, and even then only briefly.”

Lonelily just stared back at her. “That’s not _possible,_ ” she blurted.

“Welcome to Skyrim,” Lydia replied with a shrug. “Would you still like to set up camp here?”

 _My socks are sodden, I can’t feel my nose, and I’m fairly certain my hair is actually frozen._ “Yes, let’s do that,” Lonelily agreed with feigned civility.

Lydia cleared an area of snow and set up their tent, then started a fire. Lonelily huddled in her bedroll inside the tent and stripped out of her wet traveling cloths. She dug through her own pack for a fresh set, shivering as her exposed skin goosebumped in the frigid air. _This is madness. I can’t even hang my clothes to dry, they’ll just be stiff with rime by morning._ She rooted through Lydia’s bag and produced small blue vial. Lonelily grimaced, uncorked the bottle and quaffed the potion all in one go. _Tastes of frost mirriam, fish and just a hint of snowberries,_ she thought with disgust. Still, the cold already seemed less biting. 

“Do they not have winter in Valenwood?” Lydia called from outside the tent. 

Lonelily shot a venomous look through the canvas. “Valenwood is warm all year ‘round. Not the sweltering heat of Elsweyr deserts, but…temperate. Comfortable.”

Lonelily could hear the Nord bustling around a fire. _Wood. She’s burning wood,_ she realized with a fury. Still, the chill seeping into her bones made the blasphemy almost acceptable. “I can’t imagine leaving my home to live someplace so very different,” Lydia ventured.

“It was hardly by choice,” Lonelily tugged on the wool socks Lydia had passed to her, allowing herself to feel a modicum of gratefulness. “You’re certainly familiar with the Thalmor’s influence. Imagine all of Skyrim under their heel.”

The tent flap pulled back, and Lonelily shrank back from the blast of cold air as Lydia entered. “You fought?”

“What’s to fight? The Aldmeri Dominion is the only government Valenwood knows now. They declared our oldest traditions to be sacrilege and treated our people as pets.” Lonelily accepted a bowl of stew, examining it carefully as Lydia sat cross-legged next to her. “I lived with it, for a time, but I couldn’t maintain the fiction. Whenever I looked in my husband’s eyes I saw only the broken spirit of a proud people. So I fled.”

Something unreadable crossed Lydia’s eyes as she sipped her own broth. “That must have been difficult.”

 _Oh, are we to be friends now?_ “Everything is ‘difficult.’ I keep to the Pact and do what I need to survive.” Lonelily supped a spoonful of stew, carefully avoiding the chunks of potato. “How much further to Ironbind Barrow?”

“We can reach it in another two hours, come morning.”

“Good.” Lonelily wolfed her stew down, leaving her bowl empty but for the vegetables and ensconced herself in her furs. “Sleep now, then. The sooner Ironbind is looted the sooner we can move on to the next tomb, the sooner I can leave for a place that never sees snow.”

*

Lonelily had to admit that Lydia was certainly more useful than the last Nord she’d herded into tomb traps. While she had all the discretion of a charging saber cat, she threw herself into battle against the draugr in a way Lonelily never would have considered for fear of her life. The Nord met her ancestors blow for blow, almost relishing the dents in her armor and bruises in her flesh. If nothing else, her destroying the draugr saved Lonelily from the humiliation of failing to fulfill her obligation to the Green Pact.

“What is it like?” Lydia seemed to a perverse delight in making as much noise as possible, even when not in battle. Lonelily almost suspected that she was actually trying to draw attention to them. 

“What is _what_ like?” Lonelily demanded, examining the rotating blocks carved with the images of animals the ancient Nords had revered. _I refuse to believe that these locks prevented anyone from entering the tombs._

“The, well….,” Lydia groped for words. “Being the Dragonborn.”

 _Nords and their epithets. I am more than your damned title._ Lonelily gripped the block and turned it so that the etching of the whale faced outward. The gate barring the way deeper into the crypt slid away. “It’s not _like_ anything. Other than inadvertently making dead dragons catch fire, the only difference is that all of a sudden everyone I meet thinks I have a great destiny.”

“Well, yes.” Lydia stepped past the elf, entering the next chamber with her shield raised. “My father says that your coming was foretold by the Elder Scrolls.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that,” Lonelily scoffed. “I spoke with a Moth Priest once, hidden away with his Elder Scroll at the bottom of a vault in Hammerfell. You know what he told me about the Scrolls?” Lydia shook her head, eyes scanning the chamber. “If you look at them long enough, you can find anything at all.”

“And?”

“And what? There are stories in the Elder Scrolls of you, traveling with an Orc who can Shout. Of a _Khajiit_ who fights dragons. Who’s to say one of those other Dragonborn isn’t the real one?”

Lydia frowned, and Lonelily could see her trying force the thought through her dim mind. After a long moment, she spoke. “You’re here now. And you’re the Dragonborn.”

“Yes, it seems there’s just no getting away from that,” Lonelily muttered. 

They made their way down a long hallway, and took up position before a sturdy iron door. “This will be the last chamber,” Lonelily said. “We have to assume there will be draugr ready for a fight.”

“As am I,” Lydia replied. 

“Wonderful.” Lonelily pulled the door open wide, letting Lydia rush through and following more carefully. The elf let out a low hiss at the sight: six skeletons turned toward the noise, one with magic radiating from its phalanges and two more with bows. “We need to be careful…”

“For Skyrim!” Lydia shouted heedlessly, charging for the mage-skeleton.

 _Idiot!_ Lonelily let an arrow fly at one of the skeletons turning to swing at Lydia. The arrow _cracked_ hard against its skull, stumbling its aim enough to miss the Nord. Lydia fell on the mage-skeleton with a viciousness, giving the monster no quarter or time to ready a spell. Lonelily picked off one of the archer skeletons, the magic animating its bones collapsing as her arrow shattered its spine. _The way back is clear,_ Lonelily thought. _Could slip out and allow the Nord the death she so obviously wants._ Despite the thought her hands moved unceasingly, notching, drawing and releasing each arrow in one smooth movement.

Lydia staggered as one of the skeletons brought its mace down hard on her back. She returned the blow with her shield, and Lonelily threaded an arrow between her raised arm and head into the sternum of another skeleton about to land its own blow. Lydia followed through instinctively, bashing the skeleton to pieces. 

The last skeleton fragmented against Lonelily’s arrows, and the elf scanned the room for more before turning on Lydia. “That was _stupid,_ ” she snarled.

“One of them used magic. A single spell could have shifted the battle.”

“Your being bludgeoned to death would have ‘shifted the battle’ as well.” Though six inches shorter, Lonelily stepped up to Lydia and jabbed a finger at her armored chest. “You want me to be your Dragonborn? Then you need to keep me _alive_. I can’t even pretend to be useful to you if I’m dead and _what is that chanting!_ ”

Lydia frowned down at the elf. “I don’t hear anything, my Thane.”

“How could you not…?” Lonelily cast about for the source of the noise, her eyes settling on the far wall, decorated with an etching of a dragon head and carvings of bizarre symbols. “Oh,” Lonelily said lowly. “One of those again.”

Lydia followed close behind as Lonelily approached. “What is it?”

“I found one like it in Bleak Falls Barrow. Those carvings are words. Or…concepts.” The wall loomed over a rude platform, with a throne facing towards the wall and away from Lonelily. She covered her ears against the relentless beat of the chant.

“Do you need to…” Lydia grasped for words. “Commune with it?”

“Wait,” the elf ordered. _It can’t be as bad as last time. Just walk towards it._ Lonelily took a step forward and braced herself against the arm of the throne; her vision dimmed even as one of the sets of carvings began to glow. _Fade,_ something whispered in her mind. _Fade…_

Bony fingers seized around Lonelily’s wrist, and she looked down with a jolt. The draugr sitting on the throne leered up at her, grip tightening and pulling her towards the blade in its other hand.

“ _Lydia!_ ”

The Nord’s reaction was instant: she laid her shoulder into the back of the throne and _shoved_ , spilling the draugr warlord out onto the ground. Lonelily broke free, but the darkness and chanting from the wall almost overwhelmed her. “It’s Gathrik!” she shouted. “Kill it!”

 _Fade,_ echoed through her mind. _Fade._ Behind her she heard the clash of metal on metal; Lydia found her enemy. Blindness took Lonelily, and she stumbled towards the only light that penetrated. She fell against the word wall even as the carvings permeated her mind. “Fade,” she whispered as the darkness retreated from her vision. 

Warlord Gathrik pressed Lydia hard, a war ax of ebony cleaving deep into her shield but the Nord refused to give an inch. Lonelily pushed off from the wall, groping for her weapons; she spotted her bow lying beside the throne, too far away, and drew her dagger from her belt. 

Lonelily launched herself from the wall, tackling the draugr and drawing her blade across his throat. Gathrik drove his elbow hard into her gut, sending Lonelily reeling back. Lydia tried to push off from her knees, but the undead gave her a disdainful kick before turning to Lonelily. It spoke, guttural angry sounds punctuated with low laughter as it gestured to its own slit throat.

“I suppose that was optimistic of me,” Lonelily growled, readying her dagger in before her.

Gathrik’s onslaught was sudden and vicious. His ax flashed left and right but as fast as he was the elf dodged just an instant faster. She opened wounds that would not bleed on its forearms, thighs and face but no injury seemed to weaken it. _Relentless bastard,_ she realized grimly, ducking under a swing. _It’s not going to die to this dagger._ The draugr herded her back with its swings, and in an instant she realized her back was against the word wall. _I wonder what the damned Elder Scrolls have to say about this._

Lonelily tried to dodge sideways, but Gathrik caught her fast and slammed her back against the wall, drawing back his ax for a killing blow. The elf caught a flicker of motion behind him, and hoped. “ _Feim!_ ”

The ax passed harmlessly through Lonelily’s ethereal form even as Lydia’s mace smashed into Gathrik’s helm once, twice, and a third crushing time. The draugr collapsed, spent, as Lonelily’s body faded into corporeal physicality again. “Was that your Thu’um?” Lydia asked, marveling as the elf solidified. 

“It’s _a_ …a Shout. A I-don’t-know-what.” Lonelily staggered to the throne Gathrik vacated, crumpling into the seat. “It’s exhausting, is what it is.”

Lydia examined the room for further threats, and finding none turned back to Lonelily. “You fought well.”

“I survived,” the other woman responded with a snort. “I’d just as soon avoid having to face my enemies head on.”

“Attacking from ambush is…deceitful.”

“It’s kept me alive this long.”

Lonelily rubbed her forehead. _Fade_ still echoed in her skull. “Are you all right, my Thane?”

She didn’t look up. “Fine.”

“What…what was that?” 

Lonelily looked up with a scowl, and found herself at an uncharacteristic loss for words. “You know how when you speak, you can put an emphasis on certain words?” she asked. Lydia nodded, uncertain. “It feels like that word put an emphasis on _me_. Does that make sense?”

“No. Not even a little.” Lydia answered. “But you are the Dragonborn. My understanding is not important.”

“That’s fortunate,” Lonelily muttered. “Look to Gathrik there. What artifacts does he carry?”

Lydia crouched next to the destroyed draugr. She pulled the ax free from its grasp and necklace from around its neck and offered them to the elf. “Keep the ax, it’s of good make.” Lonelily plucked the necklace from Lydia’s grasp. “Now isn’t that interesting. Do you know what this is?”

“It’s an amulet,” Lydia responded drily.

 _Poor Nord, unhappy about an elf plundering your historical treasures?_ “More than that. Look at it.” Lonelily held the pendant up. “This is an Amulet of the Sixth House. One of these was given to each of Dagoth Ur’s minions, at least before the Nerevarine wiped them all out. I wonder how Gathrik came to possess one of these.” Lydia looked baffled. “Have you never read history?” 

“I’ve little interest in the machinations of the dark elves,” Lydia replied.

“Well, you should be interested. It makes for fascinating reading.” Lonelily secreted the necklace away in one of her belt pouches. “And I’ve found that other peoples’ histories have a nasty habit of becoming my problem.”


	6. Chapter 6

High Hrothgar towered in the distance as Lydia and Lonelily made their way eastward, towards Whiterun. _We’ve been hither and thither across Skyrim, but climbing the Seven Thousand Steps is one thing she absolutely will not do,_ Lydia thought. He pack was heavy with stolen treasures and relics from half a score tombs. _Perhaps I should tell her there are valuable artifacts atop Hrothgar. Maybe that would convince her to speak with the Greybeards._

“I don’t plan to stay in Whiterun long,” Lonelily called over her shoulder. “There’s a Dwemer ruin not far from Riften; Bthalft. We’ll rest the night and make our way through Riverwood and what’s left of Helgen before taking the southern pass.”

“That would leave us close to Ivarstead. Perhaps a trip to High Hrothgar would be in order?”

“No, I think not.” Lonelily had an infuriating spring in her step as she blithely disregarded her Housecarl. 

“As you wish, my Thane,” Lydia grumbled. 

They passed into Whiterun without incident. Where even weeks ago the guards had been full of contempt for the Bosmer, now they greeted Lonelily with the reverence due to the Dragonborn. She waved them aside with absent distain. “My visits in Whiterun have been decidedly brief. I’m going to spend some time seeing what the town has to offer. Let us meet at the Drunken Huntsman at nightfall to plan tomorrow’s trip.” She caught sight of Lydia’s dubious expression. “I’ll be there.”

 _Well yes. I’m useful to you now._ Still, Lydia kept her peace. “Of course, my Thane.” 

They parted at the gates, Lonelily to examine the armor at Warmaiden’s, Lydia to wander the houses in the Cloud district. _The attacks are getting worse,_ she worried. They’d been outside of Rorikstead when a dragon attacked the town. Lydia had drawn Gathrik’s ax, ready to charge into battle, but Lonelily stopped her with a command. _The beast perched atop a farm house, breathing fire down on the villagers and the Dragonborn claims it is ’not our battle.’ I stood and watched Rorikstead burn, what does that make me?_ She pushed the thought away. She had sworn to follow her Thane.

“Gimme your money!”

The childish cry broke Lydia’s revere. Out behind one of the houses, a girl no more than ten summers old shoved a boy the same age. The boy -Lars Battle-Born, Lydia realized- collapsed with a cry and held up his hands to ward off a blow. “You’d better give me five septims, right now, or I’m going to bloody your nose!”

“I don’t have any gold, Braith!”

The Redguard girl was unimpressed. “Oh yeah? Well I guess it’ll be _ten_ septims tomorrow.”

“Enough of this,” Lydia rumbled, letting her shadow fall across the children. “’Battle-Born.’ Your name speaks more of your mother’s courage than your own. _Strike_ the girl.”

Braith drew back; it was rare that anyone interfered in her play. But Lars only cried out, “I c-c-can’t!”

Lydia knelt down to put herself on the boy’s eye level. “If you refuse to stand for yourself then you deserve the contempt you’ve earned. To be humiliated by a _Redguard!_ Have you no pride, boy? Have you no shame?” The boy’s eyes watered and his lip quivered, and Lydia stood with a snort of contempt. “Do as you will with him,” she told Braith. “You can’t possibly make him less than he already is.”

She left them behind, and found a bench before the Gildergreen. Heimskr was in rare form today, shouting in a frenzy about the ascension of Talos. It was a good sermon, one Lydia had heard many times before. 

Most of Whiterun ignored him, truth be told. In the past, worship of Talos had not been something to be preached so much as simple fact. Every Nord knew the truth of Talos’ life as a man, and how his very acts raised him to divinity. Faith in that truth was unquestioned by any true child of Skyrim, and Heimskr’s fixation seemed to others to border on the obsessive. He hadn’t always been this way, but Lydia and Heimskr reacted in very different ways to her mother’s death. Lydia threw herself to her duty, Heimskr threw himself to his god.

When the sermon ended, Lydia approached. “When have you last eaten?”

“My faith sustains me,” was all Heimskr answered. 

“Even faith can be bolstered with meat and bread. Come.” She led him to their home. Heimskr busied himself with cleaning the shrine kept in the front room. Lydia unwrapped a bundle of salted rabbit meat and set it in a pan to cook.

“A dragon flew overhead yesterday,” Heimskr commented without looking up. “I wondered if perhaps that blasphemer elf killed it.”

Lydia felt her jaw set in anticipation of the argument. “No, father, I don’t believe we saw that one.”

“Oh!” Heimskr feigned surprise. “But surely you must have earned great glory in killing others, yes?”

“Lonelily killed the dragon by the watchtower.”

Heimskr waved that away dismissively. “That was the _other_ elf. The blue one.”

“Irileth. She’s lived in Whiterun almost as long as I have.”

“She’s an elf. Full of wiles and schemes, that one is. Not a daughter of Skyrim.” Heimskr left his shrine to join Lydia at the pot. He pulled down a bulb of garlic hanging overhead and shucked it, letting the thin skin fall into the fire and dropping the individual cloves in with the meat. “And neither is the dark-eyed one you follow around.”

“It’s true that Lonelily doesn’t accept our traditions,” Lydia allowed, tearing leeks to pieces and mixing them with the rest. 

Heimskr shook his head. “She is an elf, and deceitful like all her kind. She cannot be Dragonborn.”

Lydia took a calming breath. “I’ve fought with her. Felt her Thu’um. Talos acts in ways that we may not understand.”

“Talos would not allow the champion of the Nord people to be an _elf,_ ” he shot back. “She is using you.” 

_More than you know._ Lydia scooped the food into a pair of bowls and shoved one at Heimskr. “Then why don’t you _act,_ father? If Lonelily isn’t truly the Dragonborn then prove it. If the Empire has outlawed worship of Talos, then take up arms with the Stormcloaks!”

“My place is-”

“Where? Weak and comfortable in Whiterun, shouting at people who have chosen their sides? What good have you deluded yourself into believing you’re doing? Why don’t you _act?_ ”

Heimskr speared a hunk of rabbit and chewed. “You call it weakness, I call it strength! To proclaim the truth when your faith has been outlawed! When your own daughter condemns you!”

 _This is the same quarrel we have every time,_ Lydia thought desperately, with the sinking realization that this argument would go the same way as all those before it. “I don’t condemn the faith. I condemn this _apathy_ that leads you to waste your time shouting when you should be _fighting_ for you beliefs!”

“If it is too wretched to bear my sight, then get out!” Heimskr snatch the bowl away from Lydia, spilling its contents across the floor. “Go!”

“I love you, father,” Lydia said quietly, rising to her feet. “I want to meet you in Sovngarde one day. Bad enough that mother died in her sleep. But all this _talk_ will not earn your welcome.”

She left with that, his ranting following her outside. Lydia made her way to the town’s wall, and climbed the rude rampart to look to the west. Nirn’s moons are impatient for the sun to descend, and begin their rise early. Lydia watched them for a long while, thinking about her father and Sovngarde. _You can’t force honor upon him,_ she thought.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon Lydia pushed herself up and turned towards the Bannered Mare. They’d need a place to sleep, and her father certainly wasn’t going to welcome them. She haggled a bit with the innkeeper, but they both knew twenty gold for the two of them was cheap and Lydia was still just looking for an argument. She trudged out to find Lonelily, and had to admit a small measure of surprise when she pushed through the door to the Drunken Huntsman and found the elf sitting at a table in the corner.

“I’m quite ready to go,” Lonelily said lowly, glaring at Elrindir, the wood elf behind the counter. “I’d thought it would be good to speak with another Bosmer, but this one’s mouth is muddled with the Nord ‘truths.’” The elf shopkeeper returned her glower.

“Let us be off then, my Thane,” Lydia replied.

“’My Thane.’” Lonelily snapped. “’Dragonborn.’ I’ve a name, Nord. Use it.”

Lydia recoiled at the venom in her voice. “I don’t know what I’ve done to displease you.”

Elrindir spoke up with mocking tone. “Yes, oh Thane, why don’t you explain yourself.”

Lonelily’s tone sharpened. “That’s enough from you, blasphemer.”

“We should leave,” Lydia said, sensing impending violence between the elves. “My Th…Lonelily, I rented a room for the both of us. We should get a good night’s sleep.”

“Where?”

“Well…in the Bannered Mare.” The Elrindir began to laugh, though what amused him so was beyond Lydia. “It’s the only inn in Whiterun…”

Lonelily’s cheeks flushed, and she snapped through clenched teeth. “No. No, no I will not spend another minute in these profane structures. We sleep in the woods tonight.”

 _This is madness._ “Why? The Mare is a fine inn. Warm in the night, with comfortable beds.” Lydia felt her own irritation rising. “There is no _reason_ to subject ourselves to sleeping on frozen ground!”

“I will not explain myself to the likes of you!” Lonelily shouted. “I’m _sick_ of this place! With its buildings of _wood_ and _books made of paper!_ ”

“Yes,” Lydia replied with forced calm. “Buildings are in fact made of wood here, and books are made with paper, much like they are everywhere.” _Could she actually be deranged?_ Lydia wondered. _Of course buildings are made of wood. What else would they be made of?_

The slight elf snarled. “It’s sacrilege.”

“It’s Skyrim!”

Lydia realized her hands were curled into fists. For a brief moment Lonelily looked fit to fight, but instead she shoved past Lydia, kicking the door open and fleeing into the night.

The shopkeeper chuckled lowly to himself, and Lydia turned to him. “Explain,” she growled.

“Your Thane is a bit lonely,” the shopkeeper replied snidely. “It’s fair, I suppose. There aren’t many who keep the old superstitions since the Aldmeri Dominion claimed stewardship over Valenwood.”

 _What does loneliness have to do with buildings made of wood?_ Lydia fumed. She glanced to the chair Lonelily had sat in; of course, she’d left her bag and her accustomed mass of cloaks behind. Lydia collected them all and headed outside. 

“Elf?” she asked the gate guard wearily.

The man pointed towards the direction of Riverwood. “Moved so fast she leapt straight over the walls, then made for the trees. Lost sight of her there.”

“Of course she did,” Lydia said. _Let me be known by my actions,_ she thought. 

Twenty minutes of determined walking left Whiterun behind her. Lydia glared at the rising hillside, trying to decide where her wayward Thane would have gone. Past the Pelagia farm the trees grew sparsely, becoming denser as the land rose to meet the Throat of the World. The sun had disappeared below the horizon, and Lydia despaired of seeing anything in the gloom.

It was a quiet sob off to her left that drew her attention. Lydia followed the noise and found Lonelily huddled against a fallen log, shivering and miserable.

“I grow weary of chasing you, my Thane.”

At first she wasn’t sure Lonelily had heard her, but the elf whispered: “I hate this place. I hate this place so, so very much. I hate the cold. I want the verdant grottos and the warm forests. I want home.”

Lydia considered her for a long moment, then laid her bags and the elf’s cloaks down. “All right.” She sat next to Lonelily, pulling the elf struggling elf close and wrapping them both in the cloaks. “All right. I will keep you warm.”


	7. Chapter 7

Lonelily realized with a start that she was alive.

Dawn’s light glared through the trees to the east, and she shielded her eyes against it. Her muscles were stiff as death, but the pain itself was proof of her life. Lonelily sat up, pushing cloaks off her as she surveyed the forest around her and Whiterun in the distance. A pang of sorrow rang beneath her breast; waking up, let alone waking up in Skyrim, was a profound disappointment. _How…?_

“Good morning,” Lydia sat a few feet off, sitting back against a tree and apparently entirely ignorant of the frigid morning air. “There’s food in the pack, if you’d like to break your fast.”

The Nord went back to the book in her lap, and Lonelily rummaged through the bag. She ignored the breads and fruits, and came up with a hunk of dried meat and a vial of potion. She downed the potion immediately, feeling her body become less cold even as the liquid coated her tongue with its vile slickness.

“I believe that I have misjudged you,” Lydia said eventually. Lonelily said nothing, gnawing on the meat and watching the other woman warily. “I had…I had expectations of what a hero of legend would be. I didn’t expect that she would also be an elf.” Lonelily’s eyes slitted, and Lydia corrected herself. “An individual. A woman with her own concerns. I swore to serve you, and I wish to know you better.”

Lonelily swallowed, and buried herself under the cloaks again. “Among the Bosmer, a person’s name is how they are _known_ ,” she said. “Referring to a person by an epithet takes the person from them. Reduces them to a simple role.”

“I see,” Lydia said. “ ‘Thane’ is a term of respect, like a champion, but I didn’t realize the implication to you. I apologize, I’ll not use it again.”

Silence stretched. _What is this? An interrogation? What does she want?_

Eventually, Lydia lifted her book for Lonelily to see: ‘Pocket Guide to the Empire, Third Edition.’ “There were Khajiit traders outside Whiterun. I bought this from them while you slept. It speaks of Valenwood, but…” she shrugged. “I wondered if you could tell me about it.”

“It’s…” Lonelily checked herself. Instinct told her that silence was always the wisest course of action, but it had been so long since she had someone to speak with. Whatever else could be said of her, Lydia appeared entirely sincere. “It’s beautiful. And terrible. You think you’ve forests here, but you don’t understand what a forest really is. Tree hundreds of feet tall, with branches thick enough to block the sun. We’ve few cities as you know them. I grew up in Falinesti, a wandering great-oak bigger than all of Whiterun. It used to be our capital, before the Thalmor came.”

“That sounds incredible,” Lydia replied. “Did you have houses in the branches? I don’t understand.”

Lonelily shook her head. “Falinesti itself provided. My home, and my parents’ home was shaped from the sacred wood.”

“Did you live with your parents?”

It was a prying, personal question, and Lonelily was surprised how willing she was to answer. “For my first half-score years, of course. After that I lived with the youth tribe. We don’t have your insular clans; Bosmer believe that the community is responsible for all childrens’ upbringing.”

Lydia thought that over for a moment. “That seems very strange to me. Doesn’t that just result in feral children?”

“It’s said all Bosmer are a bit feral.”

“There’s that,” Lydia chuckled. “What of your family? You’ve mentioned a husband before. Do you have any siblings?”

“Ah, well.” Lonelily pulled the cloaks tighter around herself. “Let me answer that with a question. What do you know of Valenwood? Other than from your book?”

Lydia shrugged. “Much as you’ve said. Loyal retainers of the Aldmeri Dominion. Trackless jungle and wood, a people prone to pacifism but vicious in war.”

“’Retainers.’ That’s a very polite word.” Lonelily scoffed. “Valenwood’s history is tied to the rest of the Empire’s. Two hundred years ago, the daedra lord Mehrunes Dagon attacked the Tamriel, killing the Emperor and causing havoc across the land. You know of this?”

“Of course. Tradition states that several of the Holds were savaged in the Oblivion Crisis.” Lydia put her book down and listened. 

“The Empire began to collapse after that. Vvardenfell was wiped out, the Black Marsh, Elsweyr, Summerset and Valenwood all seceded. The Altmer of Summerset were cunning, and took advantage of it all. They fooled the Khajiit into joining them with trickery, and came to the Bosmer as advisers. Soon the Thalmor were involved in all aspects of ruling and culture, and their advice became less suggestion and more command.” Lonelily paused, deciding how much more she wanted to say. “Now, Valenwood belongs to the Altmer. Bosmer merely live there. They’ve cleansed the communities of our ‘juvenile’ beliefs, of our faith in Y’ffre and the Green Pact. My father attended one of the Thalmor envoys as a manservant; keeping his home, managing his accounts, that sort of thing. The envoy took a liking to my mother and put her to work as well. So yes. I have three siblings, half-Altmer bastards all.”

Lydia’s brows knit together. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like. For you or your father.”

“I wonder some times,” Lonelily allowed. “Did she choose to collaborate because of some threat? What did the Altmer do to coerce her? Or did she willingly give herself over for trinkets and the privileges of being an envoy’s kept woman?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now. And my father was murdered soon after. The Thalmor periodically carry out purges of the communities, when they felt the local Bosmer had become too uppity. Rarely was there any actual defiance; certainly my father wouldn’t have known how to speak back to his master. But the Thalmor never needed an excuse.”

“And now they’ve set their eye to Skyrim,” Lydia said.

“You’ve cause for concern,” Lonelily agreed drily. “When I was a girl I thought of fleeing to High Rock. The tales of glamor and intrigue in their Courts were intoxicating to me. But I grew up a bit. Met Eradan, came to be with his child. I thought that I would make the best life I could in Falinesti.” _Might as well tell the Nord all, now._ “But I couldn’t. The Thalmor made keeping to the Green Pact impossible, and Eradan, he…he and I argued bitterly. He claimed that living was more important than the old ways. I called him a fool then, told him our lives were only worth our faith. He argued pragmatism, I saw capitulation. I left soon after. Took a new name, slipped into Cyrodiil and from there Hammerfell.” She paused. “My boy was eight years old when I last saw him.”

Lydia kept a respectful silence as Lonelily shivered, and not from the cold. “That is the tale of a woman of strength,” Lydia said at last. “A woman of legend. I understand now why Talos chose you to be the Dragonborn.”

“It certainly doesn’t feel like strength,” Lonelily muttered.

“You mentioned the Green Pact. Is that why you refuse to sleep indoors? Why you’ve refused to eat plants?”

The elf sighed. “In time before telling the world was chaos. Y’ffre came to the Bosmer and taught us the lessons to master the wilds. In exchange, we promised to keep to the Green Pact. To not harm the plants of Valenwood though eating or industry, and to consume the bodies of slain enemies. It is a small sacrifice for Y’ffre’s patronage.”

“You eat _people?_ ” Lydia gaped. 

“We make use of everything,” Lonelily replied tightly. _Of course the Nord doesn’t understand the Meat Mandate. Her gods only ask that she dies prettily._ “And even in that simple obligation I’ve had to make _concessions._ Ordinarily a Bosmer would have her entire family to help; I’ve only myself, and so only eat the heart. And even then your draugr make that…difficult.”

A look of revulsion crossed Lydia’s face, but she kept her tone even. “I’d thought those were cruel rumors.” She glanced down at the book in her lap. “One thing I don’t understand. From what I read, felling trees from Valenwood is forbidden, but not using woodcrafts or carpentry made by others. But you…”

“I will not be lectured by you on the specifics of my faith,” Lonelily snarled. Lydia merely waited impassively, and the elf sighed. “It’s true that my interpretation of the Pact is more orthodox than most other. But we…all Bosmer…have lapsed so greatly in our faith. I am devout, and my practice is strict.”

Lydia mulled over that for a long while. “Are beans considered plants, according to the Pact?”

 _And again the interrogation,_ Lonelily thought. “No. Beans and fruits or seeds dropped to the ground are acceptable.” Lydia seemed to make note of that, and took to her feet.

“Lonelily. I met you with ignorance, and for that I apologize.” Lonelily shrugged. _My own people hardly know the Pact, how could I expect a Nord to?_ “I swore to you that I would follow you through frost and storm, that your enemies would be my enemies. You’ve powerful enemies, and I believe they should come to know fear at the mention of your name.”

“What…?” Lonelily laughed. “What do you want to do? Lay siege to Alinor itself, just the two of us?”

Lydia crossed her arms over her chest. “The Thalmor maintain a presence near Solitude. An embassy.”

The laugh died in Lonelily’s throat. “You’re serious.”

“Entirely.”

“You don’t…we can’t…” Lonelily collected herself. “Are you mad? You’re talking about attacking the _Thalmor._ The reprisals…!”

“What would they do?” Lydia demanded. “Murder your father? Rape your mother? Forbid your faith and mine? All this and more they have already done.” 

_You don’t fight the Thalmor,_ Lonelily thought desperately. _You smile sweetly and give them what they want, praying all the while it’s not more than your soul can bear to part with. Still…the chance to strike back, for all Bosmer…_ The elf rose, fixing her cloaks around her neck. “We’ll need a plan.”

*

They argued about what to do in the back of a carriage, slowly rolling across the length of Skyrim.

Lydia’s plan, predictably, was direct and vicious: storm the front gate and murder as many Thalmor as possible before dying magnificently among a mound of corpses. It was a very bold and very Nord plan, but Lonelily reminded her that they were both worth little if they were dead. She presented an alternative: for Lydia to distract a guard -however violently she chose- to allow Lonelily to disguise herself as a servant and slip inside to murder the ambassador. “The unexplainable death of one of their leaders will to more to unsettle them than the brutal deaths of a dozen lowly gate guards.” Lydia nettled at the underhanded subtlety of the plan, but in the end relented.

They stopped for supplies in Solitude. Lydia set out in search of materials she could make a campfire out of without burning wood, and Lonelily swallowed her pride and visited a clothier, the Radiant Raiment. The Altmer woman cast a condescending look at the dirty wood elf sullying her carpets, but Lonelily knew how to appeal to a superior elf: “I’m _sorry_ mi’lady. I don’t mean to trouble you, not at all, but my mistress said I my dress looked fit to be used for wash rags. She said only you could make me look p-presentable.”

Something dark twisted in Lonelily’s gut as she delivered her wheedling lines, but she played the role of a pathetic house elf perfectly. “Tell Elenwen she treads on my goodwill,” Taarie said, seizing Lonelily by the arm and dragging her to the back room. “This party of hers has been in the offing for weeks and she sends you to me now, with scant hours to spare?” She turned to rummage through a long rack of clothes, pulling several items free. “Put this on. Quickly now!”

 _Party?_ Lonelily stripped quickly, then stepped into the skirt Taarie provided. The high elf tugged a blouse over the smaller woman’s head, and finally strapped her into a rough corset. Lonelily examined herself in a looking glass; the low-cut, shoulderless blouse and corset conspired to push her bust to prominence, and Lonelily fought to stifle a grimace. _I look like a slattern,_ she thought. That was the point, of course; servants were to be both appealing and available at all times. Outwardly, she smiled broadly. “Oh, mi’lady, I’ve never had fineries such as this. I can’t thank you enough!” she exclaimed with feigned cheer. 

“That’s very true,” Taarie replied drily. “Tell Elenwen that these last-minute orders are beneath her. And that I’ll be billing accordingly.”

“Of _course_ mi’lady.”

Taarie waved her off dismissively. “Now get out. I don’t want my actual customers seeing you here.”

Lonelily met Lydia outside. The Nord said nothing about the outfit, merely offering Lonelily her rucksack and cloaks back. “There’s to be a party tonight,” the elf said, trading her soft fine shoes for her leather boots.

Lydia frowned. “That could complicate matters.”

“Hardly. The high elves never look at their servants. A party only means more servants and more opportunities for me to move unhindered.” Lonelily stood. “Let’s go.”

*

The Thalmor embassy sat at the edge of a cliff overlooking the Sea of Ghosts. _It’s certainly a beautiful spot, if you ignore the great heaping mounds of snow,_ Lonelily thought. The compound was surrounded by a high wall topped with wrought iron bars, but they were more for ornamentation that defense. Lonelily huddled under her cloaks to stay warm as Lydia lay unmoving on a rise, watching the Thalmor sentinels’ patrols. 

“Well?” Lonelily demanded in a hushed hiss. She could feel snow beginning to weigh down on her as it lay on her cloaks. 

“One gate, facing south. Single-soldier patrols along the inside walls, but they don’t appear attentive.” Lydia looked back to Lonelily, a clump of snow falling from her hair with the movement. “I think you plan will work.”

“Wonderful,” Lonelily rose to a crouch and checked the dagger sheathed on her thigh. “You go first. I’ll wait until I’ve heard you begin to start. And don’t wait for me afterwards. The Thalmor are going to want to arrest you, and nothing good will come of that. Do what you need to in order to stay safe, and we’ll meet back at the inn in Dragon Bridge.” 

“Aye,” Lydia said, standing and readying her mace. “Fight well.”

 _She’s worried about me,_ Lonelily realized. “You as well.”

Lydia set off into the night’s dark, and Lonelily moved to her vacant spot. From there she had a view of the eastern wall of the compound, and could just make out the armored helm of the sentinel making his way back and forth behind the wall. _You’re doing this. You’re honestly going to attack the Thalmor, in their own home. You’ve spent too much time among the Nords,_ she thought ruefully.

A sudden commotion to her left heralded Lydia’s opening. “Elves! Come out from behind your walls and face a true daughter of Skyrim!” The sentinel on the east wall hesitated, then made his way towards the gate. Lonelily shed her cloaks and bolted for the wall as fast as the thick snow would let her. She leapt high and caught the top of the wall, hurtling herself over the iron bars and minding her skirts to not catch on the bars as she dropped silently to the other side. The sentinel continued away from her, oblivious, and Lonelily allowed herself a small smile. _Perhaps snow has its uses after all,_ she thought as she set off, the accumulation muffling her footsteps. 

The servant’s entrance was locked, but that only slowed Lonelily a little. A few second’s deft work with her lockpick and the door slid open. The Khajiit cook mewled something about intruding in her kitchen and Lonelily made the appropriate soothing noises as she slipped out into the embassy’s back rooms.

“Who are you? You’re not one of the house staff!” A Bosmer man stood at the prep station, glowering at her. 

_Fooling the Altmer into believing I’m a servant would be easy. Fooling one of the servants…_ “I’m with the Justicar’s retinue,” she lied easily. “He sent me to fetch drinks.”

The other elf’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Ondolemar didn’t bring any wood elves with him,” he said. Lonelily frantically evaluated her options. _Kill him and hide the body? Risky. Seduce him? Disgusting, and probably ineffective. Tell him the truth? Insanity._ Before she could formulate an answer, he shook his head. “Look, I don’t want to know where you’re from. You’re obviously up to no good.” He handed her a bulb of Colvian brandy. “Take this and do what you came here to do. Some of us still remember the grottos.”

Lonelily accepted the bulb. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. To anyone.”

The elf nodded towards the door, and Lonelily followed the sounds of merriment down the hall to the main hall. Altmer, Nords and Imperials alike mingled. _Collaborators,_ Lonelily thought viciously. She spotted two Jarls, from Solitude and Markarth if their insignia were any indication and far too friendly with the Altmer. The Legion general, an older Imperial man, at least had the decency to look uncomfortable with his surroundings. Lonelily approached him and offered the bulb. “Mi’lord? Brandy?”

“No, thank you,” he said, indicating his still-full goblet. “I’d prefer a clear head.” His head cocked to the side as he examined the elf. “Have we met?”

 _At the chopping block in Helgen, General Tullius,_ she thought. Aloud, she spoke with a titter: “Oh, all us wood elves have a common look, mi’lord.”

“I’m sure,” he said. Lonelily offered a shallow curtsy and stepped away, making a show of offering brandy to one of the Justicars. The guests swirled around her and Lonelily allowed herself to be moved by the flow of the party. At the far side of the room she spotted a woman, tall even for an Altmer and flanked by a pair of soldiers. By the deference the other guests treated her with she could only be the Thalmor emissary Elenwen.

Lonelily circulated the room, offering sham smiles and drinks. _Not here. Far too many witnesses. But the party will end and she must sleep eventually. And then she’ll be alone, or close enough to it._

“Wench! A drink!” 

The rough voice pulled Lonelily from her fantasizing. A Nord in rich finery beckoned her over, a leer fixed on his expression. “I was wondering if you could _top_ my _drink,_ ” he smirked, as if making a clever insinuation.

“Of course, mi’lord,” She filled his goblet and winced as he quaffed it all in one go. He held his goblet out to her again, but when she moved to pour he took the opportunity to wrap his arm around her, pulling her in tight against him.

“Do you know me?” he asked, breath thick with alcohol. “I’m Erikur, a Thane of Solitude. Have you heard the tale of how I earned that title?”

 _If it was anything like becoming Thane of Whiterun, the Jarl probably just handed it to you along with a rusted old ax._ “I’m just a serving girl, mi’lord. The heroes of Skyrim are so far above me…” 

She struggled to keep her face placid as his hand moved lower, towards her rear. “It is a story of much strength…though I am only a man. My weakness, truth be told, is exotic Bosmer women. Your outlandish beauty is a sign of the Divines’ favor.”

“You’re too kind,” Lonelily offered. “But I imagine a powerful Thane like yourself couldn’t afford weakness. Surely your Jarl needs you in these troubled times?”

“She is well-attended,” he grinned. “Perhaps you’ll attend me tonight.”

A haughty voice spoke up behind him. “Thane Erikur, I’ve need of you.” Lonelily turned to see Elenwen watching them with detached amusement. “There’s a Nord at the front gate, demanding to be allowed to brawl my officers. I’d as soon not ruin my party with bloodshed. She will respect your station, see her off.”

Erikur looked to his Jarl, who nodded. “As you wish, ambassador,” he said. To Lonelily: “I’ll find you later.”

 _You’ll find my blade,_ she thought venomously. Elenwen watched him go, then turned to Lonelily. “Well?”

“Mi’lady?”

“I’ve an empty goblet,” the high elf said drily. “Serve me.”

“Of course mi’lady. I’m sorry, mi’lady.” Lonelily refilled the goblet as quickly as she could. _So close. I could kill you right now,_ she thought. The Altmer’s gaze drilled into her, and Lonelily cast her eyes down submissively. “Will there be anything else, mi’lady?”

“Perhaps later,” Elenwen said with a smirk. 

Lonelily curtsied and backed away, searching for another cluster of guests to attend. “If anything, you Nords are too lax in maintaining the discipline of your people,” one of the Justicars explained to a cluster of Nord royalty. “They rebel against their rightful rulers and you deliberate over a course of action?”

One of the Nords, Jarl Igmund of Markarth, spoke up. “Am I to take it that the Thalmor have experience in quelling internal conflict, Ondolemar?”

“Not internal, not hardly. The Thalmor are the rightful and acknowledged government of the Aldmeri Dominion.” Ondolemar held out his goblet to Lonelily without so much as looking at her. “Dissidents are dealt with appropriately. It was more than a hundred and fifty years ago now, but the Night of Green Fire is still spoken of in hushed tones. You Nords would do well to inflict something similarly memorable upon your own rebels.”

 _The night Thalmor agents stole into Hammerfell and murdered three hundred refugees fleeing the Dominion,_ Lonelily suppressed a scowl. _Yes, that atrocity certainly is spoken of with horror. That and the countless unnamed purges against the Bosmer._

“Your attention please,” Elenwen had moved to the head of the hall, and at her call all conversation ceased. “I appreciate your attendance, and I believe it speaks highly of the ongoing positive relations between Skyrim, the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion.” A smattering of applause at that. “I am weary from the day’s work and will retire for the evening. Please, continue to enjoy yourselves.”

 _This is it,_ Lonelily thought. Elenwen and her guards left the room and Lonelily made to follow them. She moved quickly and silently, staying far enough back as to not be noticed but close enough that she could hear their footsteps down the turns of the hallway. An opening door and a gust of wind announced that they had left the building, and Lonelily hurried around the corner to see. She cracked the door and watched as Elenwen and her guards trudged through the rear courtyard to the large solar that housed Elenwen’s residence. 

Lonelily waited until they disappeared inside before setting out into the snow herself. The sentinels caught sight of her immediately, but she took on the air of a servant carrying out a very important task for her mistress and they let her pass without comment. She opened the door and stepped into the warmth inside. _At least the Altmer keep their homes warm._

The two Altmer who had escorted Elenwen across the courtyard stood guard in parlor, resplendent in their gold armor. “Mi’lady asked for a drink to finish her evening,” she said sweetly. 

The guards nodded to her, stepping aside to let her pass to the stairwell. Lonelily’s excitement rose with each step she mounted. _Offer her a drink to get close. She’ll be confused, but that will give me the moment I need._ She reach the top of the stairs and slipped her dagger free from the sheath on her thigh, concealing the blade up her right sleeve and hiding the hilt behind her fingers.

The bedroom door was before her. _Quickly for the throat so she dies silently. Then fulfill the obligation to the Pact and escape through the window. There will be too much of a mess to pass the guards again…_

She knocked awkwardly. “Mi’lady?”

“Enter.” Lonelily allowed herself a vicious grin before stilling her features to bland mildness. _Now._

She pushed open the door and took in the room: desk and chair to the right, window on the far wall, narrow bed in the corner, and to the left…

Lonelily felt her heart stop. Elenwen sat on a couch, a smirk on her lips and a low table set with cheeses and fruits before her. Two Bosmer men stood flanking the couch. The younger of them was unfamiliar to Lonelily, until she recognized the shape of her own eyes in his face. The other looked at her sadly. “Hello, Sidra.”

“Eradan,” she whispered.

“I cannot express the quiet joy I feel to have been able to facilitate this little reunion,” Elenwen purred, looking back and forth between Lonelily and Eradan. “Why, it’s been…how long has it been since you’ve last seen your mother, Linis?”

“This woman is a traitor,” the younger elf growled. “She is no kin to me.”

 _I can’t breathe,_ Lonelily realized. _This can’t be real. I can’t breathe._ “How…how did you know I was coming?”

“Oh, we didn’t. Not specifically. But when the Thalmor learned that the Nord’s Dragonborn savior was one of our own wayward citizens, _considerable_ effort was put towards identifying you. There are a number of different contingencies in place to bring you to us…though I’m pleased that this is the one you stumbled upon. Once we understood your identity, it was only a matter of bringing Eradan and Linis to Skyrim.” Elenwen raised an eyebrow at the weapon still clenched in Lonelily’s fist. “You weren’t planning to use that, were you? Linis, take that from her before she hurts herself.” The younger elf wrenched the dagger from Lonelily’s numb fingers, placing it on the low table before Elenwen. _He’s grown,_ she realized dimly. 

“You’ve have come _quite_ a way since fleeing your precious forests all those years ago.” Elenwen moved over on the couch, motioning Lonelily towards the empty spot. “Dissident. Thief. And now…well, something much more useful. So come, sit. Let’s you and I talk, Dragonborn. Let us talk about how you will serve the Dominion.”


	8. Chapter 8

_I was wrong about the Dragonborn,_ Lydia mused. _She’s not a warrior. She’s learned to flee and fear. Still, even the bravest Nord was unblooded once._

Of course, Nords had rites and trials to prepare children for Skyrim’s harshness. Lydia remembered her last day as a girl, nearly a score years before, when Heimskr took her into the snowy mountain range north of Whiterun. They’d traveled for miles before finding a pair of ice wraiths twining through the trees, and Heimskr handed Lydia her first mace and nodded towards them. What happened next was a blur in her memory; chilling bites, ephemeral blows, and eventually the wraiths disintegrating into azure smears on the snow. She returned her father with mace in hand, blood freezing to her leather armor. They’d returned to Whiterun that night and hosted a feast to celebrate Lydia’s first victory as a woman.

 _Perhaps this Thalmor will be Lonelily’s ice wraith._ Lydia sat in Four Shields tavern, an ale growing warm before her. Dawn had broken over Dragon Bridge an hour before, and Lydia kept her vigil waiting for Lonelily with increasing worry. _Could she have failed? Could she have been killed?_ She pushed the thought out of her mind. _The Dragonborn cannot die to elves. She would not have been sent to us only to die here._

Still, the thought unsettled her. She took a swig of her ale, wincing at the stale, bitter liquid. _Could this kill finally inspire the Dragonborn to her bloodlust? Break her of this…passivity?_ Faida, the tavernkeeper of the Four Shields had told her that a few dragons had been seen throughout Haafingar. _I’d rather meet Alduin on the open field, rather than waiting for his harbingers to annihilate Skyrim one village at a time._

The tavern’s door opened, admitting Lonelily. She wore weariness draped over her like a cloak. _The Dragonborn comes,_ Lydia thought with a grin. “Barkeep! Veal!” She rose from her chair to meet Lonelily, clapping the smaller woman on the shoulder. “Success?”

The elf sat heavily, shedding a thin servant’s jacket carelessly to the floor. She was quiet for a long moment, then eventually spoke: “Yes, complete success. The emissary died quietly.”

“It’s not the battle I would have chosen, but victory is victory.” The barkeep placed a plate before Lonelily, and she accepted a fork. “Tell me.”

“What’s to tell?” Lonelily shrugged. “I snuck into her chambers posing as a servant. She didn’t expect me, and her guard was down. I slit her throat. Blood everywhere. Very messy.” She glanced down at her pristine servant clothes. “I had to find new clothes in order to get past the guards. Took some time.”

“I was worried when you didn’t return by dawn,” Lydia said. 

“Nothing to worry about,” Lonelily mumbled, her eyes cast down at the table. “Just being careful.”

“My own role was less impressive. The sent a Thane of Solitude to dismiss me.” Lydia shook her head. “Erikur is an Imperial lapdog and Thalmor minion. He should have died, then and there, but I decided that would not have helped your mission.”

“I appreciate your sacrifice.” Lonelily poked at her meat listlessly. 

“I’ve thought on it. The Thalmor maintain patrols across Skyrim. Perhaps they should receive a similar message?” Lydia expected Lonelily to liven up at that, but the elf didn’t answer. “I mean that we should strike again. Teach them the consequence of trying to dictate to the Nords on matters of faith.”

“I think…” Lonelily put her fork down and met Lydia’s eyes. “I think it’s not enough, Lydia.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can kill a Justiciar or two. Or a dozen. But there’s only so much the two of us can do.” Lonelily shrugged. “Since I first came to Skyrim, only the Nords _haven’t_ tried to kill me. The Empire tried to execute me, and the Thalmor hunt for anyone they deem to be heretics. It seems to me there’s only one man who cares to fight them both.”

“Are you talking about the Stormcloaks?” Lydia felt her eyebrows rise. _How does she even know about Ulfric’s freedom fighters? I don’t understand. I thought she cared for little, especially for a people not her own._ “But…what of the dragons?”

“Lydia,” Lonelily replied, her tone admonishing. “A divided Skyrim will never be able to defeat Alduin. How is any victory possible when brother and sister battle? No. This civil war must be put to an end, and quickly.” 

_She says the words, but the passion behind them is cold. Still…_

Lonelily saw Lydia’s disbelieving expression. “After all. Skyrim belongs to the Nords, does it not?”

“It does,” Lydia allowed. _At least she’s found a taste for battle ._ “We should go to Windhelm.”

“Sooner rather than later, yes.” Lonelily nodded. “I’m sure Ulfric will be beside himself to see me again.”

*

After all that had gone wrong in Vvardenfell and the Black Marsh, countless thousands of Dunmer fled west from Morrowind. Some of the Dunmer settled in Solstheim, but some traveled on as far as Skyrim itself. Along with the Argonians escaping the devastation of Black Marsh, many tried to establish themselves in Eastmarch Hold in the hopes of rebuilding their lives and beginning again. What they found, though, was entirely different. Ulfric Stormcloak was wary of outsiders and outright suspicious of the mer and beastmen who flooded his hold. The Nords who loudly protested the Empire’s interference in their freedoms rarely distinguished between Imperial governors and the refugees turning the Grey Quarter into a slum. While it was true that the Dunmer found safety within Windhelm’s walls, it was a brittle safety. 

_Dragonborn or not, bringing an elf here may have been a mistake._ Lydia thought as they walked the wide stone thoroughfares.

“This seems a poor place to walk the streets after sundown,” Lonelily commented drily, returning the frigid stares of the Nords she passed. 

“They’re…unused to seeing mer outside the Grey Quarter,” Lydia allowed. “No harm will come to you, I swear it.” 

Lonelily brushed off concerns for her safety. “Just imagine it. If the Stormcloaks win, all of Skyrim will be similarly…unused to seeing mer. Much like how Valenwood is unused to seeing men.”

 _We are not Thalmor,_ Lydia bristled. _Nords believe in respecting the honor of all, not forcing our will on others._ Still, Lydia’s thoughts were troubled; the Argonians kept outside the city walls and the contempt with which the citizens watched Lonelily spoke poorly of Windhelm’s respect for all its citizens.

They entered the Palace of the Kings, fortunately without incident. Ulfiric’s hall was awash with rugs and tapestries of Skyrim blue, and kept colder than most. As they approached Ulfric himself rose from his throne, his housecarl Galmar Stone-Fist following behind. “Had I realized what you were at that tavern, Dragonborn, I would have made sure you escaped with us.”

“By your leave, my Jarl,” Lydia interrupted. “While it is true that Lonelily is Dragonborn, and an elf, and much more, to label her as only one puts lie to the rest.” Ulfric offered her a bemused look, and Lydia felt the elf’s hand on her shoulder.

“That will be all, Lydia,” Lonelily said cheerfully. “Yes, mi’lord, I _am_ the Dragonborn. You and I have both borne Imperial ‘justice,’ and I would see them removed from my adopted home.”

 _What is this?_ Lydia thought. _She turned on me with a fury when I refer to her by a title, now she embraces it?_

“Tell me,” Stone-Fist demanded. “Why’s an elf want to fight for Skyrim?”

“For freedom, of course,” Lonelily replied, her voice carrying an odd sing-song tone. “I’ve seen my own homeland fall to oppression, and I’ll not see it again. The Empire’s tyranny conspires to dominate the noble Nord spirit. I want to see them cast from these lands.”

“Well spoken,” Ulfric replied. “Tullius and his Legion are a concern, true, but I’ve a more pressing matter suited to your skills, Dragonborn.”

“What would you ask of me? Assassinate an Imperial officer? Retrieve an artifact of some cultural importance?”

“To the south of Windhelm is the Bonestrewn Crest. Mammoths go there to die, and my soldiers travel through the area to reach the Imperial positions in eastern and southern Skyrim. A dragon has made its roost there, and set my troop’s movements to havoc.” Ulfric crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Slay the dragon and I will be honored to count you among the Stormcloaks.”

“Of course, mi’lord,” Lonelily murmured. To Lydia’s eye, her smile seemed frozen in place. “Though I’d hoped for an opportunity to strike at the Imperials…”

“Who would I send against a dragon other than the Dragonborn?” Ulfric scoffed. “We will speak more when you return.”

Lonelily bowed to the Jarl. “I live to serve, mi’lord.”

*

Lonelily’s bright demeanor vanished the moment they left the Jarl’s presence. She left Windhelm in a quiet rage, headed south in the direction of the Bonestrewn Crest. Lydia rushed to keep up with her. “Lonelily? What’s wrong?”

“ _Never_ trust those with power,” Lonelily snarled. “It is a _simple_ thing I need.” She refused to explain herself beyond that, leaving Lydia wondering.

They reached their destination in a few hours. The Crest was a forsaken stretch of land, dotted with occasional mud pit and hills of worn, broken rock. Lydia picked her way carefully through the clutter of mammoth bones when Lonelily stopped abruptly in front of her. “There,” the elf whispered.

“The men send more _wah dir ahrk kos du?_ To die and be devoured?” Atop one of the hills a hundred feet away, a rock shifted and Lydia felt her heart stop as she realized it was no rock at all. The dragon glared down at them with amused interest. “Ah, but you are a _bahlaan hokoron._ Worthy opponent. _Dovahkiin._ ”

“Let’s get this over with,” Lonelily muttered, drawing an arrow from her quiver. 

The dragon let out a stuttering rumble. _It’s laughing at us,_ Lydia thought. “Are you prepare to die, Dragonborn?”

“Yes,” Lonelily growled, and let her arrow fly.

“ _Wuld nah kest!_ ” the dragon roared and in an instant was _there_ in front of them, clearing the distance between them in an instant and swiping with its mighty talons. Lydia shoved Lonelily aside, barely raising her shield in time to deflect the blow. Even so, one of the dragon’s claws punched clean through the steel. It looked down at her with amused malice in its eyes. _Worthy opponent indeed!_

An arrow _thudded_ home against the dragon’s flank, followed by four more in quick succession. Two dozen feet off Lonelily walked backward, drawing and firing again and again in an unbroken cycle of motions. The dragon turned to face her and Lydia struck with her ebony ax, opening a wound on the wyrm’s jaw. It opened its mouth and belched a stream of fire at the elf before casually knocking Lydia aside with the sweep of its wing. She rolled as she hit the ground, coming up on her feet with weapon raised. The massive beast closed on Lonelily, roaring and striking with claws and teeth. The mud did little to hinder the elf’s agility and she dodged over, under and around the blows, laying arrows into the dragon’s thick hide. It wasn’t much, but Lydia could see that the arrow’s pinpricks were beginning to wear on the wyrm. 

Lydia charged, sinking her ax deep into the dragon’s back leg even as the wyrm finally caught Lonelily in its grasp. It’s roar of triumph masked Lydia’s cry of horror, and Lonelily’s whispered “ _Feim._ ” Ghost-like, she dropped from the beast’s grip.

“Lonelily! Get back!” Lydia shouted, bringing her ax down again into the dragon’s flesh.

“ _Sahlo,_ ” it growled, rounding on her. Lydia fought the urge to _run_ as the dragon glared down. It lunged and she raised her shield just in time, lodging the circle of strong metal between the rows of needle-pointed teeth. She felt a moment of triumph as the beast growled in frustration, but that moment shattered as its jaws _clenched,_ fracturing the shield to splinters and crushing her gauntlet between pointed teeth. Lydia choked on a scream as the dragon jerked its head first to the left, then to the right and released, tossing her through the air like a hound’s toy. 

She slammed into the mud a hundred feet away. In the distance Lonelily danced around the dragon, nimbly ducking its lumbering swipes. “Incredible,” Lydia whispered. She moved to rise to her feet, but putting pressure on her shield arm sent waves of agony through her. “She’s…” Blackness clouded her vision…

…

Lydia came to with a start as the ground beneath her shuddered with a terrible impact. The dragon lay splayed in the mud, twitching as Lonelily pulled Lydia’s ax from its throat. The dragon caught fire, its soul erupting outwards and spiraling back to Lonelily, surrounding the elf in a nimbus of radiance. 

“Dragonborn,” Lydia whispered. 

Unconsciousness overwhelmed her again.

*

“I do not understand you.”

Lydia cracked one eye, then the other. Stone ceiling above her and warmth told her she was back in Windhelm. She turned her head to the side to see Lonelily leaning against the wall, her accustomed scowl firmly in place. 

“Even with your arm practically torn from your body, you tried to keep fighting. It’s foolish. You should learn your limits.”

“Torn…?” Lydia glanced at her left arm and wished she hadn’t. Her entire arm and hand were wrapped in thick bandages, wet with poultice. Her forearm was splinted and pain throbbed with each beat of her heart. “Nords don’t have limits.”

“Hardly true. You passed out four times.” Lonelily waved off her bravado. “The healer says that you’ll need some time to heal, even with her magic. The dragon was not gentle, and there was little I could do for you out there.” 

“I’ll be ready to fight for you as soon as I can,” Lydia said. Now that she was more aware, she recognized Windhelm’s Temple of Talos. “How did we make it back?”

Lonelily found a particularly interesting footstool to stare at, avoiding Lydia’s gaze. “I carried you.”

“You?” Lydia’s surprise was evident in her voice. She couldn’t imagine it had been an easy task, between her heavy armor and the elf’s whip-thin form. “Ah…thank you, Lonelily.”

Lonelily finished her examination of the footstool. “It would have been a bad death,” she said eventually. 

Voices outside the room interrupted them, and a moment later the door was flung open to admit Ulfric Stormcloak. The Jarl looked displeased as he glanced between the women. “There, Dragonborn. Your Housecarl is alive and mostly well. Now we will speak.”

“Of course, mi’lord. I wish only to serve.” Lonelily’s sing-song tone was back, but even as she offered him an obedient smile Lydia saw the elf slide a blade back into its sheath behind her back. _It would not do to surprise her,_ Lydia thought.

“You claimed that you wish to fight the Empire, and in that you and I are agreed.” Ulfric crossed his arms over his chest. “But with Alduin’s return, even this civil war pales in importance. What do you truly know of the Thu’um?”

Lonelily arched a single eyebrow. “I could whisper a few Words if you need to be convinced, mi’lord.” 

“As Dragonborn, skill with the Thu’um comes quickly and easily, but not entirely without effort. If you are to be my agent, I would have you at your most powerful.” Ulfric acknowledged Lydia with a look. “You. You know the way to Ivarstead?”

 _Ivarstead? Does he mean…?_ “I do, Jarl Ulfric.”

“Good. Dragonborn, go to Ivarstead and climb the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar. The Greybeards will instruct you in the Way of the Voice.”

For a moment, Lydia thought that Lonelily would refuse outright. Something ugly crossed her features for an instant, before the blandly polite expression Lydia had come to recognize as a mask snapped back into place. “Alduin himself hasn’t been sighted since Helgen, yes? Perhaps a decisive strike against Imperial forces would be best…they could hardly expect us to attack with the threat of the Worldeater threatening?”

Ulfric shook his head. “I admire your ferocity, Dragonborn. But only a fool fights in a burning building. Go to the Greybeards, do what they ask of you. The Empire will be there when you return, I promise you.”

He turned to leave, offering no room for dissent. Lydia watched the pleasant expression drain away from Lonelily’s face, replaced with quiet fury. “You said Hrothgar is cold, yes?” the elf asked. “I suppose I’ll need a new fur cape.”

*

Some nights, after he’d had several flagons of mead, Jarl Balgruuf liked to regale any who would listen with tales of his journey to High Hrothgar. Though the Greybeards had turned him away at the summit Balgruuf spoke of the journey with wistful reverence. Each step echoed with the history of the ancient Nords who had fought the wyrm oppressors to a standstill. The climb was nothing less than a tribute to the relentless Nord spirit.

Lydia never before had the opportunity to make the journey, but now she understood every word of Balgruuf’s awed description. She stopped at each of the etched tablets on the path up, enraptured by the tale of the Dragon War and Jurgen Windcaller’s Seven Year Meditation that lead to the creation of the Way of the Voice.

To Lonelily it was cold, miserable and fraught with the danger of falling.

Despite the history, Lydia was glad when they reached High Hrothgar. The healer left her arm in a sling, and the exertion made it ache horribly. Impatient, Lonelily trudged ahead through the snow and shoved open the monastery’s tall doors. “Hello?” she called.

“The Greybeards take oaths of silence,” Lydia said, wincing. “Perhaps it would be best respect that?”

“I took no such oath,” Lonelily scowled, scouting ahead.

The Greybeards were assembled in the monastery’s central hall. “ _Dovahkiin,_ ” one of them whispered, “I am Arngeir. We welcome you to High Hrothgar…though we expected you somewhat sooner.”

“’Oath of silence,’” Lonelily repeated back to Lydia mockingly. Louder: “I’m here now. Just…tell me where Alduin is, and we’ll fight him.”

“Matters are…not so straightforward.” Arngeir said. “Perhaps it would be best if you spoke with the grandmaster of our order. He awaits you outside.”

“Perhaps he would care to come inside?” Lonelily suggested. “It’s a good bit warmer.”

“Quite impossible,” Arngeir replied, leading the way through the monastery. 

“Of course. I can almost feel my nose again, it must be time to go out again,” Lonelily groused. 

Lydia shushed her. “These are revered holy men, Lonelily. Every Nord fantasizes about just this opportunity.” The elf appeared unimpressed. “If nothing else, consider this an opportunity to be free of the risk of being attacked by…” Arngeir opened the exterior door leading to a large courtyard, a massive dragon resting among the snow bluffs. With her good arm Lydia hauled Lonelily back, slamming them both away from the doorframe.

“Yes, I feel _much_ safer here,” Lonelily snapped, pulling her bow free from her back.

“Peace, _Dovahkiin._ This dragon is no enemy.” Arngeir said, standing in the doorway. “This is Paarthurnax. It is he who first taught man how to Shout. It is he who leads us.”

“And that seems sensible to you?” Lonelily demanded.

From outside, the dragon’s voice rumbled. “ _Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin._ Greetings. Speak. I will listen.” Lydia and Lonelily shared a tense look. _It’s a dragon…but a dragon who talks?_

“I’ll go first,” Lydia said. “If it…just keep yourself alive.” She left before the elf could think up a snide rejoinder. The dragon was _massive,_ far larger than the beast they faced in the Bonestrewn Crest. It watched her as she approached, ax at the ready and painfully aware of her useless left arm. _If it attacks…_

“ _Al hin ni._ I will not harm you.” Snow began to drift down from overhead, laying on the dragon’s ridged back.

Lonelily emerged from the monastery, bow at the ready. “I’m told to destroy the dragons…and sent to a dragon to learn how to do it?”

“ _Orin brit ro._ It is ironic. But time is not our ally here.” Paarthurnax laid his head across his paws, putting his eye on level with Lonelily’s. “Alduin gathers his strength. Before long he will turn his full attention to Nirn, rather than merely contenting himself by toying with mortals. The Divines paired Alduin’s arrival with yours, _Dovahkiin._ Are you prepared to do what you must?”

“I am,” Lonelily replied. 

“I taught the first Nords the _Thu’um,_ the Voice, and they in turn created a Shout that could wound even the most powerful _dovah._ ” The dragon flexed his wings, sending snow sliding to the ground. “It is that Shout that will humble Alduin.” 

“Then teach me,” Lonelily scowled.

“Ah,” Paarthurnax rumbled. “There lies the difficulty. I do not know this Shout. But there is a way…” Lonelily crossed her arms over her chest, scowling. “Alduin’s battle with the first Nords was lost to time…in as much as anything is lost to time. Knowledge of their shout can be found through a _Kel_. An Elder Scroll.”

Lonelily rubbed the bridge of her nose. “And where am I to find an Elder Scroll?”

“Paarthurnax…” Arngeir spoke up. “This Shout was used once before, was it not? And here we are again. Perhaps Alduin is not meant to be defeated. If the world is meant to end, so be it. Let it end and be reborn.”

Lydia could not hold her peace at that. “If the Worldeater is to be victorious, then let us be judged by our actions in the face of the inevitable. I _will not_ sit idle, even if my intervention is futile. I am Nord. We defy the impossible.”

Paarthurnax rumbled his approval at Lydia’s conviction. The Greybeard watched her sullenly, but made no reply. All three turned to the elf.

“Just tell me where I need to go,” she whispered.


	9. Chapter 9

Paarthurnax decided that there was much for Lonelily to learn, and so they spent the afternoon in _tinvaak._ The dragon called it a conversation, but Lonelily had never before participated in a conversation where the participants breathed fire at one another. 

He taught her several Shouts, apparently just by willing them into her knowledge. It was unsettling to say the least; along with the Shouts came fragments, shards of the dragon’s history. Lonelily winced as a vision washed over her _and the mortals readied their pathetic spells. She flared her wings and landed hard, scattering the puny defenders. A blast of lightning skittered along her scales, and she leered down at the little mage who dared to attract her attention._ ”Gaan lah has,” _she hissed, and the Nord’s expression turned to one of utter terror as he felt his magical energies drain away. She lunged forward, consuming him in two quick gulps. His fear was an excellent seasoning._

Lonelily eyed Paarthurnax warily. “You weren’t always an ally to man.”

“This is true. _Dov wahlaan fah rel._ We were made to dominate. You feel it as well, I know.”

“Why should I trust you at all?” Lonelily scowled. “I’ve seen parts of what you’ve done. You and your dragons, you’re everything the Thalmor aspire to be. Power, subjugation.”

The dragon bobbed his massive head in a crude approximation of a nod. “I was...asked…to aid the humans. I could not refuse. After Alduin was banished, I took to studying the Way of the Voice. To master my inborn nature. _Zin krif horvut se suleyk._ What is better? To be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?”

“Some things can _never_ be forgiven,” replied Lonelily lowly. 

“Perhaps. And perhaps that reckoning will come between you and I. But not today.” Paarthurnax rose to all four feet, arching his back and stretching his tail in an oddly feline pose. “There is one last understanding I must impart. The _Kel_. It was kept by the _golt-fahliille,_ the Dwemer, before their hubris claimed them. You will find it in a place called Blackreach.” 

He leaned closer, and _the cold air buffeted her wings as she banked, the odd little tower rising from the hillside capturing her attention. It was a strange creation of stone and bronze, but she understood the name of it. Alftand._ Lonelily broke free of the memory. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

*

The next dawn rose over an intense snow storm. Lydia saw no problem with making the descent through it but Lonelily rejected the idea out of hand, with several unkind suggestions involving Lydia’s parentage and mountain goats. They delayed almost the entire day before Lonelily relented.

Lydia was much quieter than she had been in the journey up, her childish enthusiasm over the ancient Nord tablets entirely absent. Lonelily thought of leaving her to her brooding, but something nagged at her to ask after the other woman. “What troubles you?”

“The Greybeards,” the Nord answered. “They are…wise. Holy men, held in esteem by all Nords. But their master is a _dragon?_ One of the very monsters we fought so long ago?”

“A vicious monster, at that,” Lonelily agreed. Images of Paarthurnax’s memories were jumbled in her mind, but a sensation of gleeful sadism carried through all of them. It turned her stomach to think of them. 

Lydia stopped. “Could this be a trap?”

Lonelily shrugged. “Yes. But it isn’t. From Mirmulnir, Ahjoorfeyn and Paarthurnax’s own memories, Alduin has no concept of subtly. He’s a juggernaut; impossible to stop, but without nuance. Leaving Paarthurnax to deceive us is beyond him.”

“Ahjoorfeyn?”

“Oh,” Lonelily frowned. “The dragon from the Bonestrewn Crest.”

Lydia began to make her way down the path again. “I worry, my Thane. Carrying a dragon’s recollections could make it difficult to do what needs to be done.”

“I absorb their souls, Lydia. Not the other way around.” Lonelily squinted through the misty haze. “I think I see Ivarstead. Let’s get off this damned mountain.”

*

They spent the night in Ivarstead, and bought supplies for the trip north in the morning. It was Lydia’s suggestion that they try and buy the farmer’s horses and Lonelily’s fame as the Dragonborn that secured the deal. 

They followed the base of the Throat of the World for a while before the way north opened. Lonelily had to admit that this part of Skyrim -the part without snow- was beautiful. The trees _almost_ reminded her of Valenwood, and for a moment Lonelily allowed herself to feel the ache of homesickness.

Lydia’s torn muscle and shattered bone had healed well, leaving behind only the ugly purple and green mottling of deep bruises. Lonelily had a good idea of how much pain the Nord must have still felt, but Lydia stubbornly refused to acknowledge any discomfort.

The sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon on the third day of their journey when Lonelily pulled up on her horse’s reins, head cocked to the side with a quizzical expression on her face. 

“My Thane?” Lydia asked.

Lonelily closed her eyes, concentrating. It was just at the very edge of her hearing, but she could feel it buzz in her chest as well: a cadence of chanting. “There’s a Word wall nearby.”

To her credit, the Nord didn’t ask if she was sure, only scanned land around her for possibilities. “Maybe there?” she asked, pointing to a mountainous rise to the west. 

Lonelily turned her horse towards it and set off at a trot. The chant became audible, and she called over her shoulder: “It’s this way.”

They dismounted at the base of the rise, and Lonelily looked for the best way up. “We should secure the horses,” Lydia called after her. “They might wander.”

Lonelily returned, standing before the horses and stroking their long heads. The animals glowed golden for a moment, and Lonelily said “Stay here.” The horses nuzzled her, and bent their necks to graze. “Animals respect those who follow the old ways.”

Lydia led the way up the bluff, showing Lonelily the best handholds as they went. By the time they reached the top, both were panting with the exertion. A Word wall faced the mountain, the ground before it cluttered with mammoth bones, a chest and a low slab of tomb. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Lonelily said, approaching the wall. The chanting became almost deafening, but by now it was expected. She stumbled forward, catching herself against the wall as the glowing words imprinted themselves in her soul. _Voice. Fool. Far._

“I’ll need a minute,” the elf said, sagging against the wall. 

“All right,” Lydia replied, worry written plain on her face. _It’s like she can’t decide if she’s a warrior or a mother hen,_ Lonelily thought. Lydia jerked upright, looking at the edge of the bluff they’d ascended. “Did you hear that?”

Lonelily frowned. “No. Hear what?”

“Someone talking…” Lydia readied her ax. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”

“Do that,” Lonelily replied, closing her eyes. The chanting had stopped, but the words themselves still reverberated in her chest. _Voice. Fool. Far._ She rubbed her forehead. This Shout seemed less impressive than the first she’d learned, or any of the ones Paarthurnax taught her. 

_Voice. Fool. Far._

Lonelily’s eyes shot open. Lydia crouched at the ridge, glancing over the side, searching for her phantom conversation. “Lydia! Get back!”

The Nord looked up with a frown even as a fireball erupted against her back, casting her over the edge and tumbling to the ground below. Lonelily struggled to her feet as a lich drifted down the mountainside towards her, leveling its staff at her. 

“You had best pray she isn’t dead,” Lonelily snarled, notching an arrow and letting fly. The creature didn’t even flinch as the arrow sank home where its heart should have been, but by now Lonelily expected that. She was already running when the next fireball slammed home against the Word wall. “Smarter than most draugr,” she muttered, sending arrows its way with careless ease. Its face was hidden behind an iron mask that bore an expression of tired disinterest, but she could feel the _hate_ emanating from the thing. It raised its staff again but Lonelily was faster, her arrow destroying its fingers and dropping the staff into the snow. 

Three more arrows staggered the lich and Lonelily dove forward and rolled, coming up with the staff. “Burn,” she hissed, releasing a blast of flame. The creature let out a cry of anguish as the flames engulfed it, writhing just long enough for Lonelily to drop the staff and land a series of arrows into its belly. The cry became a roar and it floated towards her, magical energy seething from its hands.

“Dragon priest!”

Lydia stood at the edge of the cliff: bruised, bloodied and furious. The lich rotated in the air only to suffer another salvo from Lonelily. It twisted back, but Lydia’s charge brought her to it in a heartbeat and her swing separated its head from its body.

Lonelily and Lydia stood there a long moment, panting as the dragon priest’s body disintegrated. Only its robes and mask were left behind.

“I’m finding it difficult to kill a thing that doesn’t mind losing its organs,” Lonelily intoned.

“Dragon priest. Traitors who gave over their integrity to serve their dragon overlords.” Lydia kicked the rags. “They are without honor.”

 _Honorable or not, this is all collaborators deserve._ Lonelily crouched over the remains, and hefted the iron mask. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better. A few bumps. Scared the horses.” 

Lonelily smothered the urge to roll her eyes at the Nord’s bravado. “We’ll shelter here for the night. Give you some time to recover.” Lydia groused at that, but went to fetch their tent and sleeping rolls. Lonelily stashed the mask in her bag and set about clearing snow near the Word wall.

*

The Dwemer ruins were some of the best-preserved areas left in Vvardenfell. After the Red Mountain’s explosion devastated most of the island, many Dunmer took refuge in the great underground complexes and began to rebuild their society as best they could. Following her flight from Valenwood Lonelily had made quick gold as a trader between the major settlements, at least before the authorities caught wind of her ‘fees’ and drove her out. With her visits between Nchuleftingth, Arkngthand and Druscashti, Lonelily thought she had seen everything the Dwemer had to offer.

Blackreach, the massive cave hidden beneath Alftand, defied her every expectation.

“It’s incredible,” Lydia breathed.

The cave’s ceiling arched almost further ahead than could be seen. _And there is life here!_ Underground rivers fed into a lake filled with translucent fish the likes of which Lonelily had never seen. Bizarre plants and fungi lit the area, their splashes of color punctuating the dark. The elf wandered the paths, running her fingers through the moss hanging from the towering luminous mushrooms. “I’m certainly finding a new respect for the Dwemer,” she said quietly. 

“Indeed.” Lydia examined the cavern, picking out one of the Dwemer structures built among the mushrooms. “Let’s try that one. We’ve a mission to carry out.”

“A mission. Yes.” Lonelily followed the Nord down the stone path, lost in her thoughts. _She thinks we’re only doing the bidding of the Greybeards. Of Ulfric. She doesn’t understand._ Familiar sullen bitterness grew in her chest, and the elf gritted her teeth. _Typical Nord. Blind to anything that isn’t explained to her. She wouldn’t even care if she knew._

Lonelily’s pace slowed. _Is that true, though? Lydia has been nothing but attentive. She can be trusted._

Lydia noticed her Thane stop. “What’s wrong?”

 _She can be trusted._ Lonelily took a deep breath. “I lied to you.”

“I…” Suspicion and confusion marred Lydia’s expression. “About what?”

“Elenwen. The Thalmor emissary?” Lydia nodded. “I didn’t kill her. She…she knew. She was waiting for me.” Her words came out in a gush. “They know who I am, Lydia. She had my husband and my son. You don’t know what she will do to them. You don’t know.”

“What did she want?” Lydia asked. 

“She wants war. Between Skyrim and the Empire.” Lonelily sat on an outcropping of rock. She couldn’t look at Lydia. “Whoever wins this civil war, the Thalmor benefit from both sides being weakened. But they worry that the Stormcloaks aren’t going to be able to resist on their own.”

Lydia crossed her arms. “So they sent you to Jarl Ulfric.”

Lonelily nodded.

The Nord was quiet for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” Lonelily said. “For whatever that’s worth.”

“Tell me about them.”

At that Lonelily did look up. “Elenwen? Tall for her kind. Cunning.”

Lydia waved her words away. “Not the Altmer. Your husband, and son.”

“My…?” Lonelily felt a familiar stab of pain. “Eradan is a historian. He…he wanted to know everything there was to know about everything. His space was…” She laughed, the short little bark of someone unfamiliar with the action. “We had one room of our home given over just to his damned scrolls, and still I’d find them everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.”

Lydia sat on a nearby rock with a sigh. “You must have hated that.”

“I argued with him about it. Constantly. ‘I ask one thing of you!’ I can hear it now.” She shook her head. “It’s pointless now.”

“What about your son?”

“He hates me,” Lonelily answered immediately. “Called me a traitor, for fleeing the Thalmor. He’s been indoctrinated as a good little servant of the Dominion.”

“I meant before,” Lydia said quietly.

Lonelily looked up at the glowing moss high overhead. “He loved to climb,” she said softly. “Anyone who lives in Falinesti must; living in the migrant trees would be impossible if you didn’t. But Linis…he never took a path when there was a vine he could climb. He hadn’t even gone to the youth tribe when I left.”

Lydia looked away, choosing to ignore the tear that ran down Lonelily’s cheek. “What really happened when you left?”

“Oh. It was just as I explained. Eradan took a longer view. Valenwood was part of the old Aldmeri Dominion, six hundred years ago. He argued that the Bosmer had won our freedom from that Dominion, just as we would win our freedom from this one. That we should concentrate on living, make _concessions_ and wait for history to take its course.” The elf shrugged. “I’d made…some statements. Publicly. It was enough to attract the attention of the Justiciars, and I knew that staying within the borders of the Dominion would be suicide. I tried to convince him to leave with me, but…no. I thought I was stronger than he was because of my convictions. Now I wonder if I wasn’t weaker.”

“What do we do?” Lydia asked.

“We find the Elder Scroll. We kill Alduin, we wipe the Empire out of Skyrim. It’s horrible, Lydia. But for Eradan and Linis? I will collaborate. To keep them safe, I will do any thing Elenwen requires of me.” Her fists clenched. “I’m beginning to understand the choices my mother made, and I…I _hate_ that.”

*

They fought their way through the Tower of Mzark after that. If Lydia noticed the utterly excessive violence Lonelily brought to bear against the Dwemer automatons, she made no comment.

“What do you think happened to them?” Lonelily asked as the last of the sphere centurions collapsed into scrap. 

“The Dwemer?” Lydia examined the final double doors, wedging her ax into the seam and forcing the doors open with a loud creak. They entered the large chamber, wary of the massive device of brass and glass lenses hanging overhead. “I’d heard they just disappeared, thousands of years ago.”

“But how?” Lonelily crossed the room to the control console, her brows drawn together as she shook the mental cobwebs from her understanding of Dwemer script. “I’ve read dozens of books about the Dwemer; many ideas, but no real explanations.”

Lonelily found the sigil that indicated an Elder Scroll and pulled the lever. Ancient gears ground against each other, driving a short chest out of the floor at the center of the chamber. “Worried it might happen to us?” Lydia asked, approaching the casket.

“There’s nothing to suggest the disappearance was a fluke. Deliberate ascension or divine wrath, yes. But not an accident.” Lonelily followed her Housecarl down the curved ramp. “I’m more curious if it’s an accident that could be replicated.”

“You jest,” Lydia said.

The elf stopped before the casket, scrutinizing its controls. “Imagine it, Lydia. The Altmer, just…gone. Every one of them. Never to trouble anyone again.”

“Killing in battle is one thing,” Lydia replied quietly. “Necessary. Glorious, if your enemy is worthy. But what you’re describing is…it’s an atrocity.” 

_And there’s your Nord foolishness again,_ Lonelily thought. She met the other woman’s eyes and pressed a faint smile onto her lips. “You’re right, of course. Just petty fantasies of revenge.”

“Of course.” Lonelily could hear the concern in her voice. _You’ll comfort my sorrow, but just retribution worries you. Nords are such a strange people._

With a few manipulations the casket opened, revealing the unmistakable form of an Elder Scroll. Lydia lifted it gently from its cradle. “Careful. Don’t open it. To even glimpse at what’s written in an Elder Scroll without preparation is to invite madness.”

“What now?” Lydia strapped the Scroll to her pack and slung the pack over her shoulders. “Back to High Hrothgar?”

“I’d be very surprised if Paarthurnax is any less susceptible to the Scroll’s effects than you or I,” Lonelily mused. “We’re going to need someone who can read the Scroll.”


	10. Chapter 10

It was true that Nords were not known for being great thinkers. There were no great libraries in Skyrim, and as a rule Nords held little respect for those who would spend their days in contemplation rather than taking decisive action. Lydia saw only two options for the sort of repository of knowledge Lonelily sought: the Mage’s Guild in the College of Winterhold, and Balgruuf’s court wizard Farengar. Lonelily favored the Guild for their vast arcane libraries, though Lydia disagreed. Mages were unpredictable, following whims that made little sense to outsiders. No wise Nord trusted those who had been seduced by magic.

When Lonelily pointed out that Farengar was a wizard himself, Lydia countered that there was only one of him and that he could easily be killed if his unfathomable nature proved problematic. In the end, Lydia decided the matter by describing in frigid detail the blizzards of Winterhold. Lonelily elected to work out of the more temperate Whiterun.

Jarl Balgruuf fell over himself to aid in the Greybeard’s quest, putting Farengar’s library at her disposal. The wizard complained a bit, his irritation at being evicted from his own rooms was quickly overwhelmed by his curiosity regarding the Elder Scroll. Soon Lonelily was there day and night, reading through books more quickly than Lydia would have imagined possible in search for information on the Elder Scrolls.

When Lydia returned from the market with lunch, Lonelily was where she had been for the past four days: camped out at the center table that dominated the room, a small fort of books piled on all sides around her. Lydia dropped a small bag on the table between the Elder Scroll and the dragon priest’s mask. “Eat.”

“I can eat later,” Lonelily replied, not looking up from her reading. 

_She drives herself. She is the Dragonborn, and the Altmer control her._ “That’s what you said this morning.” The elf made no move towards the bag, and Lydia pulled up a chair. “Fine. I’m not waiting.” She dug into the bag, producing a pack of salted goat meat, snowberries and nuts. 

Lonelily’s eyes followed the motion. “No mead? None of your vegetable stews?”

“I am sworn to carry your burdens,” the Nord answered simply. 

“You know nothing of the Green Pact,” Lonelily said. 

“I know you believe it’s important,” Lydia replied. 

The elf grunted at that, and pulled her meal from the bag. “Thank you.”

 _Grudgingly given, but sincere._ “What have you found?”

“That the Scrolls defy understanding.” Lonelily gnawed on her goat jerky. “Literally. There has never been a full evaluation of them, because they ‘do not exist in countable form.’” She tapped a copy of ‘An Accounting of the Scrolls,” resting open against the Scroll itself. “They are said to contain the past, present and future… _all_ of the pasts, _all_ of the presents, _all_ of the futures, even the ones that have not and _can_ not happen. The only people who can reliably discern any truth from the Scrolls are the members of the Cult of the Ancestor Moth, and they guard their secrets jealously.”

“Then we need to find one of these cultists.”

“Yes,” Lonelily sighed, pinching the bridge of her knows and squeezing her eyes shut. “Farengar said he’s heard _rumors_ of a Moth Priest passing through Skyrim, but that’s nothing to go on.”

“A difficult search, to find one man in all of Skyrim.” Lydia wolfed down a handful of snowberries. Lonelily nodded, her eyes returning to the page in front of her. She read with a desperate fervor, her brows knit together in concentration. _It’s not right that she should be owned by the Thalmor._ “Can I speak plainly?”

The elf’s eyes flicked up warily. “I should hope so.”

“The Thalmor’s offence against you cannot be borne. It should not be. They should be made to pay for their presumption.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it,” Lonelily said quietly. Louder: “Why do you object? I’ve joined Ulfric to free Skyrim from the Imperials. I’m living up to my _destiny_ as your damned savior.”

“Because I swore to defend you and all of yours.” Lydia leaned forward in her chair. “Because it is not _just._ Were my father threatened, no force would stop me from protecting him.”

Lonelily shook her head, resignation in her eyes. “I appreciate what you’re doing, Lydia. I do, honestly. But it’s not going to work. You don’t understand. I thought I escaped the Thalmor, but I didn’t. It’s just not possible. They are always three steps ahead.”

“I don’t believe that,” Lydia said.

“We will push through. If I do as Elenwen bids, Eradan and Linis will be safe. She has no reason to hurt them so long as I’m compliant.”

Lydia leaned back in her chair, watching the elf. “You’ve already thought about death as a way to escape your situation.” It was a statement, not a question.

Lonelily came up short against that. She set her jaw, refusing to reply at all.

“I saw how you looked out over the edge of the Throat of the World as we climbed. Yearning for the fall,” Lydia pressed on. “You fight well, but your boldness in battle is not from bloodlust or recklessness. You seek death. And if you die, then what?”

Lonelily turned back to her book, staring silently at it for a long while. “Elenwen has no reason to keep them, if not as leverage against me,” she whispered.

“If you die, she has no reason to keep them _alive_.” Lydia put her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “You’ve said yourself that the Thalmor have no regard for the lives of Bosmer. Do you honestly believe that they will outlive their usefulness?”

Lonelily shook her head.

“Then we _must_ save them. Before it’s too late!”

Lonelily opened her mouth to answer, and shrugged off Lydia’s hand. “Why? Why does this matter to you?”

“Frost and storm, Lonelily.”

The elf regarded her for a long moment, and stood slowly. “Farengar? I’m going to leave the Scroll with you. We’ve some things to take care of.”

*

They argued long into the night about how they should carry out the rescue. Lydia, naturally, favored an assault. Lonelily forbade that immediately; with her husband and son’s lives at risk, such a blunt, imprecise approach was unacceptable. It was clear they needed help beyond the two of themselves, and Lydia had an idea of who to turn to for that.

The next morning they approached the Companions. Lydia spoke first, cajoling with promises of honor and glory, but it was Lonelily’s offer of coin that secured the mercenary’s service. Aela and Farkas set off for Solitude and the Thalmor embassy before noon to seek out any information they could find about Eradan, Linis, and Elenwen. “It should be us going,” Lydia groused. 

“You and I are known,” Lonelily replied, clearly no happier about it. “Patience. Discipline. In the meantime, we need a place to stay. They’ll be gone for weeks, and as refreshing as sleeping on cold dirt was last time we were in Whiterun I’d just as soon avoid it.”

 _There’s precious few buildings in Whiterun that don’t use wood,_ Lydia thought as they stepped out of Jorrvaskr into the night’s breeze. “It may not be entirely to your satisfaction, but we could stay with my father. Space will be tight, but...”

Lonelily glared at the wood-frame houses surrounding them, and sighed. “Fine. I would appreciate his hospitality.”

Lydia led the way to Heimskr’s home and knocked on the door. The door cracked a bit to reveal Heimskr’s suspicious eye, then opened all the way. “Lydia. Evening services will be starting in a bit, but…” his voice trailed off as he caught sight of Lonelily. “… _elf._ ”

Lonelily raised a single eyebrow in an expression of profound annoyance. “Oh. You.”

 _Gods, not now._ “You’ve met?” Lydia asked.

“You would bring this blasphemer elf into our home?” Heimskr demanded. “Are not the endless encroachments of the Thalmor into our country not enough, that this one must also invade my most holy sanctum? You’ll find what you seek here, Justiciar! I worship Talos, proudly! My faith is inviolable and beyond the tarnish of your meddling claws!”

“We’ve met,” Lonelily replied blithely.

Lydia let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. _I thought she’d kill him for calling her Thalmor,_ she thought. “Father. Lonelily is my Thane. She is the _Dragonborn._ ”

“Elf manipulations,” Heimskr snapped, slamming to door shut in her face. Lydia gritted her teeth and turned to face Lonelily. 

“I apologize.”

Lonelily shrugged, turning away. “Let’s go to the inn.”

“Aye,” Lydia agreed. The Bannered Mare was only a short way, and inside they found chairs near the firepit. “I’m sorry,” she said as they settled in.

“You said that already. You’ve nothing to apologize for.”

“My father has…strong convictions.” Lydia leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, staring pensively at the fire.

Lonelily called out to the bartender. “What do you have?”

“Ale, and the finest of Honningbrew’s mead,” the Redguard woman replied.

“Anything that isn’t made from plants?”

The barkeep rolled her eyes, but Lydia spoke up. “Saadia? The bottle Hulda had shipped from the Black Marsh. And two steins.”

Lydia accepted the bottle and yanked the cork off and poured two generous helping, offering one to Lonelily. “Argonian bloodwine. It’s made from the essence of mire eel, fermented in water taken from near one of their sacred Hist trees.” 

The elf sniffed it carefully, and winced. “It burns the eyes!”

“That it does,” Lydia chuckled. “Strangely, few care to try it.” She held out her stein in salute and drank it back all in one go. Lonelily shrugged and followed suit.

“Well,” she gasped. “Potent.”

They sat by the fire a while, drinking and refilling each other’s steins in turn. It was a comfortable silence of two people who had much to say but respected each other’s reluctance.

Lydia was refilling their steins when the tavern’s door opened, admitting Uthgerd. She caught Lydia’s eye, examined Lonelily, and nodded. Lydia turned away and accepted her stein back from the elf.

Lonelily watched Uthgerd sit at her own table and raised an eyebrow at Lydia. 

“What?” the Nord broke the silence. 

“You know her. Who is she?”

“No one.” Her Thane was not moved. “A mistake. I thought I had her measure, but I was wrong.” She took a long draw from her stein. “She killed a man. Accidently. It broke her, despite what she says. Now she spends her time doing little of use.” 

“Oh? A Nord who refuses to fight?” Lonelily smirked. “I thought that an impossibility.”

“It is a _necessity_ ,” Lydia snapped. _Gods, but the lizard-wine goes to the head._ “I’m sorry. Again.”

“Stop apologizing.” Lonelily leaned forward now, curious. “How is fighting a necessity?”

“It’s…” Lydia frowned. “You know of Sovngarde?”

Lonelily finished her drink and held the stein out for more. “I’ve heard of it.” 

“Skor’s hall. An afterlife for the honored dead to feast and carry out glorious battle for the eternity. But to gain entry, a warrior must die in battle, against worthy foes.”

“Oh,” Lonelily said, understanding dawning on her. “So where’s she going?”

Lydia scowled. “To nothingness. Annihilation.” Her head was swimming, and she lowered her voice. “I would do anything to convince Uthgerd and my father to take up their weapons again. I will earn my way to Sovengarde, and the idea of eternity without either of them seems…lonely.” 

“You can’t make someone fight if they don’t want to,” Lonelily offered with a shrug.

Lydia turned a bemused smirk to the elf. “Believe me, I know.”

The elf snorted at that. _Almost a laugh,_ Lydia thought wistfully. “I wish I could save them,” she said quietly.

She felt a touch; Lonelily’s hand on her arm. The elf considered her words carefully, then spoke. “I cherish my memories of Eradan. If I had just one evening with him, regardless of the fights and recriminations and all the rest…I wouldn’t let it go to waste.” She set her stein down with a thump, and rose from her chair. “I am going to get a room upstairs,” Lonelily proclaimed. “I’ll make sure there’s a bed for you, should you need it.”

Lydia eyed the empty flagon of heady alcohol. “Are you well enough to get there?” 

“Feh. Bosmer have a strong resistance to poisons. And that was definitely a poison.” Lonelily said, listing slighting to the left in a manner that suggested she wasn’t nearly as sober as she implied. 

“All right then. I’ll be along.” Lydia watched Lonelily slowly mount the stairs, and when she was satisfied that her Thane would reach the room stood herself. She claimed a fresh bottle from the bar and made her way to the corner table where Uthgerd sat. “May I sit?”

*

Lydia’s first thought upon coming to was _This is without a doubt the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in._ Her second thought, which rode the cresting wave of a truly spectacular headache, was _I am going to find the rest of that bottle and pour it out into the dirt. And then maybe burn down the Black Marsh for good measure._

“Good morning.” 

Lydia tilted her head to the left, where Uthgerd lay alongside her. “Good morning indeed,” she replied. Uthgerd’s home was much the same as it had been a year ago, though if anything Uthgerd had become even more fastidiously clean.

“Hungry?”

Lydia’s stomach churned. “Bread, maybe.” She swung her feed off the side of the bed, wincing as sunlight hit her square in the face. “I should get back to the Mare. Wouldn’t do to leave Lonelily too long.”

Uthgerd appeared to be in no rush to leave the bed. “Afraid she’ll get into trouble?”

“Yes.” Lydia sought out her clothes on the floor. “She needs someone to watch out for her.”

“Jarl Balgruuf was right, wasn’t he?” Uthgerd asked. “She really is the Dragonborn?”

“I’ve seen her fight dragons,” Lydia allowed. “Felt her _Thu’um._ If she isn’t the Dragonborn, I don’t know what to call her.”

Uthgerd mulled that over, lounging in her bed. “What’s she like?”

“What’s she _like?_ ” Lydia repeated with a laugh. _Contemptuous, bizarre, cunning, sacrilegious, hurting…_ But Uthgerd’s earnest curiosity gave her pause. “She’s a woman, like any other,” she said. “She carried her pains before she ever heard the word ‘Dragonborn,’ and I think that most days she would rather have never heard it at all.”

“I understand that,” Uthgerd said, watching Lydia dress. “I wish I could speak with her. Come to know her, as you do. Even if she’s an elf, she’s touched by Talos. She’s an inspiration.”

Lydia watched the other woman. _Inspired by someone who fights through her pain, Uthgerd the ‘Unbroken?’_ she thought. _There may yet be hope for you._ “Would you like to meet her?”

“Yes,” Uthgerd grinned. “Yes, very much so.”

“Then you’d best put clothes on,” Lydia commented wryly. “Lonelily already thinks Nords are odd, you’ll do yourself few favors making her think worse of us.”

Uthgerd pulled on her clothes even as Lydia finished strapping into her armor. They headed outside -Lydia cursing the sunlight, her headache and Argonians in general- and started for the Bannered Mare. They hadn’t made it more than ten feet before Heimskr’s voice boomed out. “And that is the ugly truth! We are the children of man! Talos is the true god of man! Ascended from flesh, to rule the realm of spirit! The very idea is inconceivable to our Elven overlords. Sharing the heavens with us? With man? They can barely tolerate our presence on earth!”

“Your father seems angrier than most days,” Uthgerd said.

“He refused to welcome Lonelily into his home last night,” Lydia frowned. “I’ve little to say to him now.” Before Lydia could tug the other woman away, a single voice interrupted Heimskr.

“You’re pathetic.”

Lydia’s eyes flared open as she recognized Lonelily’s voice. She broke into a jog, rounding a house to the Cloud district’s plaza. Heimskr was at his accustomed spot before the shine to Talos, and Lonelily leaned back against the dying Gildergreen tree. A crowd had begun to form around them; usually Heimskr’s ranting was simply ignored, but for the _Dragonborn_ to contradict him…

“I will not be spoken to so by an _elf._ I am the spiritual leader of these people!”

Lydia reached Lonelily’s side and put a hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps we should…?”

The elf brushed her off. “Yes, and you lead your people by example. Which explains their _complacency._ You talk and you talk, but you have no courage!”

Heimskr’s face turned a violent shade of scarlet, and for a moment Lydia thought he would throw himself at her. “You would do well to mind your tongue, elf,” he snarled.

“Please. There’s no fight in you,” Lonelily shot back. “I’ve _seen_ what happens when the Altmer entrench themselves. They’ve already started. Justiciars roam the countryside persecuting the faithful, and what do you do?” She turned in place, putting the question to the gathered Nords. “You fall to your knees and _pray._ You beg to be saved. Well, your gods heard you. They sent me. And I’m not impressed.”

From behind Lydia, Uthgerd spoke up. “What are we to do, Dragonborn? We’ve enough of a fight winning our freedom from the Empire.”

“So instead you do nothing?” Lonelily snorted. “If you’ve such a need to be led, then hear me well. Soon the time will come to drive the Thalmor from this land. You will hear my call from Windhelm to Solitude, and on that day the _true_ daughters and sons of Skyrim will rally.” She cast a low glare at the assembled Nords. “And the rest of you will die of old age, safe in your beds.” 

“In our beds?!” Heimskr shrieked. “Never. _Never!_ Let your damned kin come, they will taste the steel and fury of the Nords!”

Lonelily left at that, stalking down the stairs and away from the Cloud district. “I need to…excuse me,” Lydia said, leaving Uthgerd to hurriedly follow. She caught up with Lonelily outside of the Warmaiden’s. “Quite a speech,” Lydia said.

“I thought,” Lonelily replied, “that the people around Whiterun seemed soft. A speech might put a fire in their bellies.”

 _People, or person?_ “And you happened to come across my father?”

Lonelily inclined her chin and said nothing.

 _So you were listening last night._ “Thank you.”

*

Eleven days passed before Aela and Farkas returned, reeking of the road and brimming with information. Lonelily and Lydia made their way to Jorrvaskr as soon as they received their summons. “I didn’t expect you for another week yet,” Lydia commented as they settled into the hall’s common room. 

“We only move at night, to avoid detection,” Aela answered. “But we are…adept at traveling quickly.”

 _’Adept.’ No one could cross half the width of Skyrim and return that quickly,_ Lydia thought darkly. _What aren’t they telling?_

Lonelily didn’t notice, or didn’t care. “Tell me what you know.”

Farkas laid out a map of Solitude and the surrounding environs. “You were right, elf. The Thalmor emissary keeps your mate and pup close.”

“But they’re well?”

“Aye, they appear well-kept.” Farkas didn’t notice Lonelily bristle. “The older one she keeps by her side. Manservant or assistant. The younger one she seems to make use of every day.”

Lydia saw Lonelily’s fingers curl into a fist at that. “Explain,” she demanded tightly.

Aela spoke up. “The Thalmor have taken to policing Haafingar Hold. There are nearly as many Justiciars walking the roads as guards.” 

“Solitude’s new Jarl is made of the same weak stuff as her dead husband, to have ceded her land to the Altmer,” Lydia snapped.

“She may well not have had a choice in the matter.” Farkas shook his head. “Word in the taverns is that Emissary Elenwen has extracted concessions from the Imperial Legion general in Castle Dour. That the Empire acts when the Dominion speaks.” 

“I followed the boy for three days,” Aela said. “The Altmer sent him on a number of quests across the Hold. Clearing Wolfskull Cave, destroying a nest of vampires.” Despite her forced calm, Lydia noticed something close to pride flit across Lonelily’s face. “She’s made him her agent, and he seems to have taken to the task willingly.”

Lonelily nodded tersely. “Not unexpected. How can we reach Linis and Eradan? Have the Thalmor strengthened security at the Embassy?”

“Yes, though it matters little.” Farkas jabbed a finger at Solitude itself. “The emissary and her entourage have moved into Solitude itself. Castle Dour.”

Lydia frowned. “That…complicates matters.”

“It does, that,” Farkas replied. “But Aela has an idea.”

“Elenwen does not lead from an office, but rather involves herself personally in the Thalmor’s affairs. Whether that’s because she’s a curious sort or because doesn’t trust her underlings, I couldn’t say.” Aela’s eyes slitted with animal cunning. “But that can be exploited.”


	11. Chapter 11

It took the better part of ten days for Lonelily and Lydia to make the trek from Whiterun to Solitude. Aela and Farkas shadowed them but traveled apart; Lonelily suspected some deception, but despite her reservations Lydia assured her that the Companion’s honor was above question. Regardless, the mercenaries did little to keep away the wolves that lurked in the darkness beyond the campfire’s light each night.

They crossed the frozen marshes north of Morthal, and Lonelily called a halt for the night at an abandoned shack. She could see the lights of Solitude and the Blue Palace in the distance. _Close,_ she thought. _So close. We could storm Castle Dour tonight. Now._ Lydia had advocated such; waste not a minute, charge in as soon as possible. Lonelily herself had struck the idea down. _Patience. We’ve a course of action, no sense in throwing it over rashly. I’ve waited for Eradan this long, I can wait another night._

Lydia emerged out of the darkness, watching Lonelily with dark eyes. “I’ve set out our bedrolls. You should sleep, Lonelily.”

“I should.” The elf made no move to go inside, instead staring out over the Solitude harbor and the Sea of Ghosts. The stood quietly for a long while, watching boat lights slide over the water. “Linis will be difficult for some time, after we escape. All he knows are the Thalmor’s ways,” Lonelily said. “I may ask you to be his…warden. Until I’m able to speak with him, and he is able to hear me.”

“The Thalmor have poisoned his mind, but he’s young. We’ll get him back.”

“I hope so,” Lonelily said, squelching the quaver of worry in her voice. “Eradan must hate it here.”

Lydia cocked her head. “Why is that?”

Lonelily chuckled. “He groused and complained about the cool days in Valenwood, which are warmer than the sunny days in Whiterun. And to be here, in northern Skyrim…it must be torture for him.” She shook her head. “We’re not going to be able to stay. Hammerfell might be the best place for us. It’s warm. I’ve plenty of contacts there. Thalmor are executed on sight. It’s a good place to settle down.”

She felt Lydia stiffen next to her. “As…as you command.”

Lonelily glanced sidelong at the other woman. “I expect I’ll have well-earned a reprieve, after destroying Alduin.”

The Nord deflated a bit at that. “I’m glad to hear that. I had…worried. That you would abandon your destiny as the Dragonborn.”

 _After being apart for so long, nothing will separate me from my family again. Not even the end of the damned world._ Out loud, Lonelily merely commented: “I would hate to disappoint Talos. And I’d hate to disappoint you.” She looked again out over the bay. “And…it has been a very, very long time since I have had someone I could call a friend.”

*

They made their way to the spot Aela and Farkas picked out just before dawn, in the snowy hills north of Solitude. Lonelily cleared the snow from a spot visible from the road and built a small cairn of rocks. On it she placed the dragon priest mask - _Krosis,_ she knew somehow- and observed her handiwork. Farkas grunted his approval and left for the road south to Solitude. It shouldn’t take long before the word he spread of the strange Nord artifact reached Elenwen’s ears. 

Lonelily, Lydia and Aela retreated into their own elements to await the Altmer. The Nords buried themselves in a snow bank, the driven flurries quickly eradicating any trace of their presence. For her part Lonelily took to a tree, climbing twenty feet up and nesting between the branches. She wrapped herself tightly in her cloak. _Soon, Eradan._

She almost fell asleep in her perch, the cold seeping into her bones. Lonelily was too much a Bosmer to do anything as clumsy as fall out of a tree, but the momentary disorientation nearly caused her a fatal embarrassment. She drank another snowberry potion and drew her dagger, pricking the tip of her tongue each time she felt the cold settle over her. How Lydia and Aela survived in the snow was beyond her, but the Nords shrugged off the artic temperatures without complaint.

The sun had reached the height of its arc and begun to descend by the time Farkas returned. He was surrounded by four Thalmor soldiers, and leading Elenwen, Eradan and Linis. Lonelily stirred, flexing the chill from her muscles.

“There, see? That’s what I was talking about.” The Nord pointed to the cairn. “Can I have my damn gold?”

“In a moment,” Elenwen replied airily. Farkas growled a complained, but one of the soldiers struck him in the ribs. “Linis. Retrieve the thing.”

The Bosmer separated from the group, passing Lydia and Aela’s hiding spot as he approached the mask. Lonelily watched him move; strong, decisive, but he never looked up. He didn’t look to the trees. Her gaze scanned back across the Thalmor party and realized with a start that Eradan was looking directly at her. _He’s still a Bosmer,_ she thought, suppressing a grin and pressing a single finger to her lips. 

“It’s a mask, mistress,” Linis called. “Ugly, too.”

“Bring it here.” Elenwen held her hand out impatiently. Nearby the snow bank shifted, and Lonelily frantically signaled Lydia to stop. Linis was too close to the soldiers, Elenwen could order them to gut him in a moment. The Altmer examined the mask’s somber expression carefully. “It’s hideous,” she proclaimed. “What is it?”

“It’s an artifact. Old Nord, I know that much. Beyond that you’ll have to ask a wise man.” Farkas shrugged. “If it’s all the same to you, I want my gold. I’ve got to get home.”

“Of course, how inconsiderate of me.” Elenwen’s eyes never left the mask as she studied its details. “Captain? Pay the man.”

The air around the soldier’s hand rippled, coalescing into a summoned sword. “Make your peace with Talos, fool,” the elf snarled. 

_No! Too soon, they’re too close together…!_

Farkas’ grin showed too many teeth, and a feral glint showed in his eye. “Talos doesn’t respect _peace._ ”

The snow bank erupted and a blur of grey fur lunged at the Thalmor soldiers. The beast slashed at one Altmer, splashing blood across the snow. _A werewolf? How…that’s Aela!_ As Aela fought Farkas let out a howl, his frame elongating and thickening with lupine muscle. 

Elenwen watched the slaughter with only vague interest. “Linis. I’d like a new fur cape.”

The Bosmer readied a pair of gilded elven axes. “Then you will have it, mistress.”

“Not so fast, boy.” Lydia rose from the snow bank, weapon and shield ready as she advanced. “Your mother would have words with you.”

The young elf wheeled at her and snarled. Linis was fast, lunging forward with both axes, though he only found Lydia’s shield. She shoved him aside and brought her own ax in an overhand swing. 

While the battles raged below, Lonelily forced her concentration to narrow. All that existed, existed in a line between the shaft of her broad-headed glass arrow and Elenwen’s back. _Sever her spine and on through her heart. A cleaner death than you deserve, witch._ She took a breath, held it, let the arrow fly…

…and it slammed home into Eradan’s chest.

For a moment Lonelily stared, uncomprehending. Eradan tumbled back, collapsing against Elenwen and clutching feebly at the arrow. “I didn’t miss,” Lonelily gasped. “I couldn’t miss.” _No. No, no no, it can’t be, no…!_ Lonelily scrambled out of the tree, falling to the ground with an utter lack of grace and racing as fast as she could through the knee-high snow. She fell to her knees at his side, prying open his coat and tunic, but even with a quick glance she could see the wound was mortal. “Why? Why did you step in the way?” 

“I’m sorry, Sidra.” He convulsed, red blood spilling from his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Lonelily whispered as his trembling stilled. “No. Come back.” 

Elenwen’s hand clamped down on her shoulder, and Lonelily gasped as she felt a paralysis spell force her muscles rigid. “Even to the end, a loyal servant of the Dominion.” The mage raised her other hand and unleashed a torrent of lightening at the werewolves. 

Lonelily collapsed on her side, locked in position by the spell. She couldn’t look away as Elenwen’s spells savaged Aela and Farkas. She couldn’t look away as Lydia and Linis dealt each other vicious blows until the boy collapsed under the Nord’s onslaught. She couldn’t look away as Lydia charged Elenwen only to be cut down by a blast of fire so powerful it sublimated the snow and scoured the ground beneath bare. She couldn’t look away as Eradan’s blood froze onto his face.

“Well,” Elenwen muttered to herself, standing alone amidst the carnage. “That went far, far better than anticipated.”


	12. Chapter 12

A blast of icy water slammed Lydia back to reality.

She surged against the chains that held her in place, roaring at the Altmer standing just out of her reach. The bindings held Lydia against the wall at the wrist and ankle, and her arms _ached_ from supporting her weight while she was unconscious. She’d awoken here with Aela and Farkas, some time ago…days? A week? She remembered little past the Emissary’s fireball, but the Thalmor interrogator informed them with no uncertain terms that their lives were over.

“Done with your display?” the Altmer asked. Lydia snarled, but knew it was of no use. The first several times he had awakened her she’d fought ferociously, but the Altmer were well-practiced at keeping a person restrained and eventually she’d been reduced to glowering furiously. “Good. I thought you might be interested in answering some questions.”

Lydia watched the man. He’d asked questions before; insignificant things about Skyrim’s climate and food, small inquiries to sound her out and test her willingness to talk. She’d made a game of it for a while, offering answers that were absurd but close enough to sound legitimate. The interrogator had played along, but she thought he was more amusing himself by toying with her than anything. “What will we talk about today?”

“I’d like to hear more about Whiterun itself. It’s Jarl, its defenses. Really anything that comes to your mind.”

 _Done biding your time, then,_ she thought. “Then you’d best kill me now. I will _never_ betray Whiterun’s secrets.”

A faint smile played on the man’s lips. “Everyone says that. At first. Your friend denied me as well, didn’t he?”

Lydia couldn’t help but look to her left at that. Elenwen had decided that she wanted a coat made from werewolf pelts, but when they had been taken captive Farkas and Aela had reverted to their human selves. Both refused the interrogator’s kind offer to be skinned, so the man sought to provoke the transformation. He worked on Aela for hours with tools Lydia had never seen before and hoped to never see again before the woman finally, mercifully, expired. Farkas lost himself in rage after that, transforming into his bestial werewolf form. They’d hauled him off after that, and Lydia suspected the emissary had her damned coat by now.

“I confess that I don’t _understand_ you Nords,” the interrogator commented, examining the mutilated corpse that had been Aela, hanging from its own restraints. “It’s been said that you’re too dumb to think through the consequences of your actions, but I wonder if that’s true. I think it may be more that you are all too stubborn to choose any course of action other than the first you see.”

“Is this where you offer me my freedom in exchange for my honor?”

“That depends on your answers.”

For a moment, Lydia wavered. Trapped here in without so much as a window to mark the passing of days made it very, very easy to imagine that she would never see the outside again. _I will never submit to the Thalmor._ “Perhaps you know my Thane?”

“The Bosmer, yes. I think we’re all very familiar with our prodigal Dragonborn,” he replied with a smirk.

“Then you know that she struggled against you, both before she left Valenwood and after,” Lydia snarled. “Even if I had not seen for myself who the Thalmor truly are, I would _never_ help you dig your talons into Skyrim.”

“Stubbornness indeed,” the interrogator smiled. “We only wish to guide the Nords through the chaotic times ahead. The Empire clearly isn’t on your side, and you need allies. And the Dragonborn?” He scoffed. “You would take the word of a bigot and a terrorist who abandoned her own family to chase her hatreds? Hardly as if her opinion matters now anyway.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“Didn’t anyone tell you?” the Altmer said, surprised. “Elenwen tried to reintroduce the Dragonborn to her son. Lineage is very important to the Altmer, you know.” Lydia said nothing. “It was…horrible, really. The Dragonborn slew her son with that Nord magic. The boy didn’t stand a chance. After that she…well. She took her own life, Most brutally.” 

_That is not possible._ Lydia thought. Even as she did, uncertainty wavered in her. _She’s been dangerously reckless…and if she really is responsible for the death of her husband…no. No!_ She reared back and spat at the elf, catching him on the chest. “To Oblivion with you.”

The Altmer examined his robes with the air of someone profoundly disappointed. “I think, perhaps, that you do not respect my resolve. The Thalmor’s resolve. You may have watched your Hircine-cursed friend die, but you yourself have been spared much. Perhaps that should change.”

“You don’t scare me,” Lydia lied. “And you don’t impress me.”

He extended a hand, a small bulb of flame taking shape over his open palm. “Perhaps some fire will thaw your Nord resistance.” The conflagration rushed towards her. Lydia shied away as much as the restraints would let her, but the flame was relentless. Her small clothes caught, then her hair, and Lydia struggled to choke down her screams as searing pain enveloped her entirely.

Abruptly the fire dissipated, and Lydia sagged against her chains. “See?” she mumbled, trying to ignore the smell of her own roasted flesh. “Not so scary.” 

She cracked her eyes open, and startled at the sight of the interrogator dead at her feet in a slowly-spreading pool of his own blood. Just beyond him stood a woman -Breton by the shape of her eyes and long, graceful nose- clad in bizarre steel equipment, made with lobstered, overlapping plates at the belly and shoulders and carrying a strange curved sword. “Lydia? Lydia of Whiterun?”

Lydia tried to answer, but the pain of her burns stole her words. She nodded.

“Thank the Nine.” The woman sheathed her blade and set about searching for a key. She found it in the Altmer’s robes, sticky with his blood. She unshackled Lydia from the wall and just barely caught the heavier woman as she dropped. Lydia felt the pain recede from her as the woman raised her hands, sending waves of golden restorative magic over her. “Can you walk? We need to leave here before another group of Justiciars arrives.”

“Where…is here?” Lydia gasped.

“Northwatch Keep. The Thalmor claimed it as a base from which to deal with dissidents.”

As the magic drained away from her Lydia straightened, flexing her arms. _Still hurts, but by Talos it’s good to be free._ “The Thalmor told me that Lonelily is dead.”

“Then you’ve learned the first lesson of the Thalmor. They lie.” The woman produced a robe and tossed it to Lydia, followed by a pair of boots. Elven make and tight across her shoulders because of it, and the insides of the boots were still warm. _These robes very recently belonged to one of the Justiciars,_ Lydia realized as she tugged the robe on. “Come on. We need to be gone from this place.”

The woman led Lydia through Northwatch Keep’s halls. There was little sign of battle, but Lydia counted nearly a dozen dead Altmer scattered throughout the fort. _None saw their deaths coming. Honorless, but no less than the Thalmor deserve._ “The Thalmor have the Dragonborn imprisoned, on one of their ships. They’re set to sail to the Summerset Isle soon, which is why we need to act _quickly._ ”

“And who are you to care?” Lydia snapped. “You’re no Nord. Why does Lonelily’s fate matter to you?”

The woman pushed open the fort’s outer doors, checking for surviving guards, and led the way into the snow. “My name is Delphine,” she replied tightly. “I’m the last of the Blades.” At Lydia’s uncomprehending look, she shook her head in exasperation. “My order has historically defended the Dragonborn.”

“Fine job you’ve done of it,” Lydia groused. 

“Yes, well.” Delphine headed east, leaving Lydia little choice but to follow. “In days past there was an entire order. Then the Thalmor happened, and now there’s only me.”

*

Delphine led Lydia to a cave overlooking the sea. The Breton had put some effort into making the space livable; braziers filled the main chamber with warmth, a bed roll lay on one of the flatter portions of the cave floor and a map of Skyrim dominated the low table at the room’s center.

“You live here?” Lydia asked, studying the map. To her untrained eye, the scrawlings on the map were details of Thalmor movements. Terse figures written around the icon for Solitude suggested that the Thalmor were less guests of the city than an occupying force.

“I do now. I used to run the inn in Riverwood.” Delphine shrugged at Lydia’s quizzical look. “It was a quiet life that wouldn’t draw attention. At least until it did. The Thalmor found me, somehow, and burned my inn to the ground.” The Breton pointed to a chest fetched up against the cave wall. “I’ve a spare set of armor there. You’re larger than I, but it should be serviceable for you.” 

Lydia crossed to the chest. Inside was another suit of the strange armor Delphine wore. On closer inspection it was exquisitely crafted. “You said the Thalmor have Lonelily?”

“For all the effort the Thalmor have put into suppressing worship of Talos, they’re fascinated by the Dragonborn.” Delphine crossed her arms over her chest. “They don’t understand her power, and that makes them curious. She’s on the _Lillandril Supreme_ in Solitude’s harbor. The ship is waiting for a few last supplies before they make the voyage around the coast and south.”

“What do they want with her?” _She has small feet,_ Lydia thought grimly as she jammed her feet into the greaves. _These boots will serve, though._

“The Altmer don’t benefit from Alduin destroying the world more than anyone else, so my guess is that they’ll use the Dragonborn to defeat the Worldeater on their own terms.”

Lydia sneered at that. “Lonelily will _never_ help the Thalmor.”

“That may not be her choice. Her ability to absorb a dragon’s soul is _involuntary_.” Delphine replied evenly. “After the current crisis passes…vivisection, most likely. To understand her power and try to replicate it.”

“I will not allow that to happen.” Lydia tightened the chest piece’s clasps and rose. She ran a hand through her hair, wincing at the sensation of her scorched strands between her fingers. Lydia found a knife on the map table and gathered her ruined hair together, and hacked away at it until the last of the burned locks fell away. 

“Which is why I rescued you,” Delphine said. “You and I are going to storm the _Lillandril Supreme._ The Dragonborn must be freed.”

*

After the months of following Lonelily’s ways of sneaking, scheming and skulking, Lydia found Delphine’s methods pleasantly direct.

The Blade lashed out with her Akaviri sword, opening closest soldier’s throat and slamming her heel back into the other approaching behind her. The Khajiit staggered long enough for Lydia’s crippling strike to send the man tumbling over the side and plunging into the water below. A dozen more Thalmor lay dying or dead on the deck, and Delphine moved quickly among them to ensure that the former became the latter in short order.

“More Altmer from the shore!” Lydia shouted. Another squad of soldiers pounded down the pier, but Lydia reached the gangplank first. She smashed the fasteners securing it to the deck and tossed the length of wood overboard. The first soldier reached the end of the pier and leapt for the ship, clutching on to the side for a moment before Lydia’s mace crushed her fingers. Delphine looked over the side of the ship, sending a gout of flame at the remaining soldiers and setting the pier ablaze.

“That should keep them away for a while,” Delphine said. “Let’s get below.”

“Indeed,” Lydia replied, tearing her eyes away from the burning figures below. The smell of sizzling meat was entirely too familiar. 

The Breton led the way below, sword at the ready, but they met no resistance. _Lillandril Supreme_ ’s crew had met their deaths on the topdeck, and Lydia granted them a grudging respect for that. Delphine moved without hesitation, heading deeper into the ship’s guts. _She knows this ship. Understands its layout,_ Lydia realized. 

“The hull is below us,” Delphine said as the exited the last flight of stairs. “She’ll be down this way.” The passage stretched the length of the ship’s keel, crates and walls of iron bars segmenting the area. Lydia drew up short as she heard the scrape of shoe leather on wood.

“I hoped you’d live to reach me,” Linis snarled, emerging from behind a stack of barrels. “I welcome the opportunity to humiliate you again, Nord.”

“I think the beating I gave you must have addled your brain, boy,” Lydia shot back. For his bravado, Linis was uncertain; his fingers clenched his axes’ hilts nervously, and he flinched as Delphine raised her blade. _She will cut him down without a second thought,_ Lydia thought. “Delphine. I’ll deal with him. Find Lonelily.” 

The Breton gave her a searching look, but shrugged. “Quickly. It won’t take the Thalmor long to find a way aboard,” she growled as she slipped away.

“Elenwen wanted you alive for questioning,” Linis snarled as Lydia approached. “I’ve no such orders now. No holding back. No _mercy_. I’m going to enj-”

Lydia struck with her shield, catching the Bosmer across the nose and sending him reeling. He let out a roar, swinging his axes wildly but only succeeding in burying one into the wooden support column beside him. “Anger makes you sloppy,” Lydia said lowly, bringing her mace down on his remaining weapon and sending it skittering away. Linis staggered back, hands up to defend himself, but Lydia dropped her mace and muscled past his guard to grab the front of his tunic. She slammed her forehead into his nose, before letting him drop to the floor.

“Lonelily asked me to defeat you, not kill you,” Lydia said, straddling the elf and pounding another blow into his nose. “Remember that. You live because she asked me to protect you.” Linis gasped, eyes uncomprehending. “Gods, boy. Whoever you obey, she is your _mother_. How can that mean nothing to you?” 

He collapsed, unconscious, and Lydia wiped his blood off on his tunic. She found Delphine crouched before one of the cells, fiddling with the lock. Lonelily lay slumped against the bars, eyes staring vacantly ahead. “Thank Talos,” Lydia breathed. The cell’s lock opened with a click and Delphine pulled the door open. Lydia pushed past her, kneeling at Lonelily’s side but the elf’s eyes didn’t so much as move to follow her. “Is she…?”

“She’s alive,” Delphine replied tersely, examining the manacle clamped to Lonelily’s wrist. “A Dunmer slave bracer. Saps the wearer’s will and strength.”

Lydia cocked her head; noises above heralded the arrival of fresh Thalmor on the topdeck. “We need to leave.” 

“Not the way we came, I think,” Delphine shrugged off her satchel and produced a number of vials. “Have her drink one of each of these, then do the same for yourself.” Lydia popped the corks free, instantly recognizing the scent of snowberries and Silverside Perch. “Warmth potions?”

“And waterbreathing. We won’t survive without. Hurry.” The Breton produced another flask, stepping out of the cell and pouring the viscous liquid inside out against the far curved wall.

Lydia tilted Lonelily’s head back, emptying two of the vials into her mouth. The elf drank accommodatingly. “And that?”

“A concoction of burnt Spriggan, Bleeding Crown and Juniper,” Delphine’s grin was unsettling, and Lydia realized the wood saturated with the solution had begun smoking. _She means to burn a hole through the hull. She’s mad._ Lydia uncorked her own vials and made to drink them, but a thought stopped her. _Linis._

She pushed past Delphine, returning to where Linis still lay on the deck. Lydia backhanded him hard across the face, rousing him from his stupor. “Can you swim?”

Linis looked around groggily. “What?”

“Can you _swim_?”

“Yes!” Lydia grabbed hold of his hair, yanking his head back and emptying half of each of her vials down his throat. He tried to spit, but Lydia clamped a hand over his nose and mouth until he swallowed. She left him sputtering on the floor, making her way back to Lonelily. 

Delphine watched her return suspiciously. “It’s almost set in. Grab hold of her, this will be rough.”

Lydia downed the last of her vials and straddled Lonelily, gripping the iron bars and holding them both in place. “Ready.”

Flames burst to life between the Breton’s palms, and Delphine launched a tight ball of fire at the soaked wood. The solution ignited immediately, burning through the hull in spare moments. A blast of steam exploded from the breach, and Lydia huddled down over Lonelily as the frigid water flooded over them. She took a deep breath, forcing water into her lungs and feeling the peculiar ache of the waterbreathing potion taking effect. 

_Time to leave._ Lydia hooked an arm around Lonelily’s slim chest and pushed off from the wall and swam through the breach, escaping into the bay.

*

Lydia surged to the surface, heaving Lonelily onto the rocky shore. The Nord collapsed to her knees, noisily expelling seawater and taking deep, gasping breaths of air.

Delphine was already kneeling beside Lonelily. The Breton, Lydia noted ruefully, looked no worse for wear. “I’ll have the manacle off in just a moment.” The beach they’d emerged on was unfamiliar to Lydia, but she had a general sense that the sea’s current had taken them eastward, towards Dawnstar. She scanned the treeline a hundred feet inland, but saw no signs of encroaching Thalmor.

Lydia dragged herself to Lonelily’s side, brushing damp hair out of the other woman’s eyes. The elf coughed, forcing up briny water even as Delphine’s lockpicks worked.

The manacle came free with a click. The expression of passivity faded, and Lonelily’s eyes slowly focused on the Nord. “…Lydia…?”

“You’re safe,” Lydia answered. 

“Dragonborn.” Delphine leaned over, trying to draw Lonelily’s attention. “My name is Delphine, last of the Blades. My order has existed to defend your predecessors in the war against the dragons…” The Breton trailed off as she realized Lonelily was ignoring her entirely.

“Lydia,” Lonelily took gasping breaths, now more out of desperation than any lack of air. “Please. Please tell me it didn’t happen.”

“I’m sorry,” Lydia said, shaking her head. 

Lonelily shivered violently, shoving the other women away. She clutched her knees up to her chest, letting loose a keening wail. 

Delphine looked to Lydia in confusion. The Nord held up her hand for patience, but Delphine moved forward to Lonelily’s side. “I know that you’re recovering from your wounds, Dragonborn, but Alduin does not rest. You need to…”

“I need?” Lonelily asked, her voice shot through with cold rage. “You know _nothing_ of what I need.”

“For pity’s sake Delphine, leave her be!” Lydia snapped. 

“Dragonborn, I-!”

Lonelily pushed off the ground, her expression contorting with fury. She hissed “ _Wuld Nah Kest_ ” and disappeared out into the forest beyond in a whirlwind of motion. 

Delphine watched as Lonelily vanished from view. “What just happened?”

“She’s had enough,” Lydia said. “Gods help us all, I think she’s had enough.”


	13. Chapter 13

Lonelily sat on the smooth stony floor of her cave retreat, not far from Falkreath. She wasn’t entirely certain how she’d gotten there, or how long she’d been there. Hunger torn at her belly, but it was nothing compared to the pain in her heart. She shoved both aside.

_Eradan is gone._

That was understandable. Eradan had been _gone_ for some time. Even before she’d fled Valenwood a distance had grown between them. She could recognize that he was _gone_ without any more pain than she’d endured on any other day.

 _Eradan is dead._

No. Too much. Lonelily took a steadying breath, stamping down on the anguish swelling beneath her breast. She’d come to terms with never seeing Eradan again some time ago. Knowing that he was no longer alive at all was entirely different. 

The next step in the sequence lurked at the edge of her consciousness, but acknowledging her own responsibility for his death was completely beyond her.

Footsteps shifted her attention. Two people stood before her; Lydia and one other. Lydia’s brows knit together in an expression of concern. “Lonelily?”

 _What?_ Lonelily thought, but words didn’t reach from her mind to her mouth. She stared back listlessly.

“I’m sorry it took so long to catch up with you,” Lydia continued. “May I sit with you?”

“So long?” Her voice surprised her; gravelly and rough from disuse.

The other woman frowned. “We rescued you from the _Lillandril Supreme_ nearly three weeks ago. What have you been doing here?”

“Delphine. You said you’d let me talk to her,” Lydia said, silencing the other woman. She seated herself cross-legged next to Lonelily: “I’m sorry. Things have…things have gotten worse out there. Dragons have attacked all across Skyrim.” Lonelily said nothing, and Lydia pressed on. “The militia in Riften drove one off. I fought another in Whiterun. On the street of the Plains District itself. We brought it low, but…”

“Without the Dragonborn, no dragon can truly be killed.” Delphine said. “They’re physical bodies destroyed, yes, with effort…but it will simply reincarnate, and soon.” 

“Farengar said that if we dismembered the body…” Lydia began.

“Farengar is a fool who knows only what he’s learned from poorly-translated tomes written by uneducated Nords.”

Lonelily watched them bicker disinterestedly. Lydia scowled and turned away from the Breton. “Whiterun, Riften…we were lucky. Markarth is more a tomb than a city now. The Worldeater came, and…the Jarl thought his people would be safe hidden in the Dwemer passages below.” Lydia shook her head. “Alduin’s flame baked them as if in an oven.”

“Does none of this stir you?” Delphine demanded. “Dragons have been sighted in High Rock and Cyrodiil. Probably Hammerfell and the Aldmeri provinces as well. There’s been no word at all from Solstheim. It is only a matter of time before the dragons begin to act in earnest and raze all of Tamriel!” 

_Wonderful,_ flashed through Lonelily’s mind. _We can finally get this over with._

“Lonelily,” Lydia laid her hand on the elf’s shoulder. “I know the pain of loss, and I grieve Eradan with you. But you must not blame yourself for his death.”

 _Oh, you stupid sow._ “I don’t blame myself, Lydia,” Lonelily growled, shaking off the other woman’s hand. “I blame _you_.”

Lydia flinched as if struck. “What?”

“You and your _foolish_ Nord obsession with violence and honor. You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Lonelily rose on legs shaky from disuse, for once towering over her Housecarl. “Eradan was _alive_ before your idiot prophecies. _Your_ aggression killed him, as surely as…” her voice trailed off for a moment, but recovered with a fury. “As surely as if you put the arrow in his chest yourself.”

The Nord regarded Lonelily from her spot on the ground. “If you need to believe that, then so be it.”

“This is what the Dragonborn has been hiding in a cave over?” Delphine demanded incredulously. “One man? _Thousands_ have died in the past days! You _must_ act, Dragonborn, or soon _there will be no one left at all!_

“ _Good!_ ” Lonelily roared back. “Good! No world that allows the Thalmor to exist _should_ continue! And if annihilating them means scourging the entire world, then that is what it is. A small price.”

Delphine looked aghast. Lydia pushed off the ground to stand. “What if there was another way?”

“There is no other way.”

“Ulfric and the Imperial general plan to meet in Whiterun. They mean to negotiate a pact to destroy Alduin.” Lydia crossed her arms. “Ulfric asked us to bring you to that summit.”

“It’s a futile undertaking,” Lonelily spat.

“Without you, yes,” Lydia replied. “Without you, Alduin will win. Ulfric and General Tullius both know that. It puts you in a uniquely powerful bargaining position.”

That brought Lonelily up short. “What you’re suggesting is conniving. Beneath your honor.”

Lydia’s jaw set. “It’s _necessary_.”

*

Lonelily had expected some damage in Whiterun. Besting a dragon would certainly come at a cost.

What she didn’t anticipate was the _devastation_.

As they rode towards the town she could see sections of the great walls had been torn down. The fields surrounding were scorched, and Pelagia’s farm was little more than a collection of charred timber. They made their way to the city’s wide doors, now knocked ajar by a powerful blow.

“The first time I passed through this gate, the guards mocked me,” Lonelily commented to Lydia. “They saw me desperate and freezing, and they mocked me.”

“That was unfitting for their position. Tell me who they are, and I will speak with Irileth. They will be punished for that indignity.” 

The elf only shook her head. “It wouldn’t be enough.”

Inside the walls, the ruin was far worse. Lonelily could almost imagine the battle from the wreckage. Warmaiden’s roof and second story were gone, debris scattered behind suggesting that the building had been rent by a single mighty blow. Down the path, the collection of stalls and shops were blackened by fire. That inferno that had spread through the Wind district, scarring Jorrvaskr and the Gildergreen. Lonelily noted with bitter satisfaction that the Drunken Huntsman had been flattened, as if a dragon had landed directly on it. _With any luck the heretic traitor was still inside._

People moved throughout the town, shoring up the collapsed walls, stripping burned thatching from the roofs or just wandering listlessly. Whispers began as Lonelily passed by, and she overheard snatches of their whispered exclamations. “The Dragonborn!” 

Irileth waited for them at the foot of the stairs leading up to Dragonsreach. She’d survived the dragon’s attack, but not whole; her tunic’s left sleeve was pinned up at the shoulder, the arm probably lost down the wyrm’s gullet. “Welcome back,” she rumbled. “Balgruuf is doing his best to keep the peace, but neither the Imperials nor the Stormcloaks have sense and our Jarl always did his best thinking with his sword.” The Dunmer’s red gaze passed over Lonelily, and she raised her chin in acknowledgement. “Dragonborn.” 

Lonelily followed up the stairs to Dragonsreach, allowing the guards to open the doors before her. Inside, the Stormcloaks and Imperials had each claimed a side of Balgruuf’s long feast table. Though Ulfric and Tullius were seated, their entourages stood behind them in a tense readiness. Balgruuf sat at the head of the table, and rose to his feet as Lonelily entered. “Dragonborn. I am relieved to see you well.”

“Good of you to join us,” General Tullius rumbled. 

“Please, sit,” Balgruuf stepped away from his chair and gestured Lonelily to it. “The Jarl and the general have been working to find a common ground.”

“’Common ground,’” Ulfric scoffed. “What we have in common is that the Worldeater will consume Skyrim, whether it is free or an Imperial province. And Tamriel won’t be long to follow.”

Lonelily walked to the head of the table, seating herself in Balgruuf’s place. Lydia and Delphine took up positions behind her. Tullius watched her sit. “We’re agreed that our present concerns pale compared to the end of the world,” he said. “We need a plan for to neutralize Alduin.”

“Or kill him,” Ulfric added, looking to Lonelily.

She merely raised an eyebrow at him. “Alduin can be dealt with, once my other concerns are addressed.”

“Concerns?” Tullius demanded, incredulous. “You’re supposed to be the gods-sent Dragonborn. What other ‘concerns’ could you have?”

“I want every Thalmor within Skyrim’s borders exterminated.” Lonelily folded her hands in front of her and awaited their response.

Ulfric looked to the elf warily. “I didn’t realize you guarded Skyrim’s sovereignty so fiercely.”

“I don’t. I want all the Altmer wiped out. Skyrim is just a good place to start.”

“I think you don’t understand the strategic situation here, Dragonborn,” Tullius said. “Even if Alduin was not a concern -and he is- we simply are not in a position to move against the Thalmor. Here in Skyrim they’ve essentially claimed Solitude as their own with reinforcements brought in by boat. In the larger theater, the Empire as a whole is simply in too weak a position to start another war with them.”

“No, general. You don’t understand the situation. _I do not care._ ” Lonelily leaned forward. “To Oblivion with your pathetic attempts to cling to a false peace. Once the Empire and the Stormcloaks have moved so blatantly against the Thalmor, all-out war will be unavoidable. And I will ensure that it is a war that scours the Altmer from Tamriel.” 

“And likely leaves Skyrim and the Empire in ruins,” Ulfric said.

Lonelily merely shrugged.

“And if we don’t agree to your ill-advised plan?”

She relaxed back in her chair. “Then we all will burn.”

Tullius and Ulfric traded a concerned look. _Test me,_ she thought with a weary smirk. _I’ve nothing to lose._

Finally, Tullius spoke. “I can assemble four hundred soldiers here in Whiterun in about two weeks.”

“I’d no idea your fighting force was so reduced,” Ulfric said. “Perhaps the sons and daughters of Skyrim truly are more than the Empire can handle.”

“Jarl,” Lonelily replied coldly. “You will be contributing forces as well.”

Ulfric opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it. “Three hundred men.”

If Tullius felt any triumph at the Jarl’s own weakened forces, he had the sense not to show it. “There, dammit,” he spat at Lonelily. “You’ll have your war. Now can we get down to putting a stop to Alduin?”

“Once the Thalmor have been unseated from Solitude, yes,” Lonelily nodded. “And not a moment before.”

*

As they trickled in, the two armies camped as separately as they could manage. Tullius’ forces stayed to the south of Whiterun near the remains of the Honningbrew Meadery, Ulfric’s stayed in the grassy plains to the north, and the two avoided each other under the strictest of orders. 

_Soon. Soon we will march._

Lonelily had not been idle in the past several days. She’d returned to High Hrothgar and extracted the locations of the closest Word walls from Arngeir, and with Lydia and Delphine by her side rode relentlessly from one site to the next. They slaughtered their way through crypts, fortresses and hideaways, and in each the result was the same: Lonelily’s knowledge grew. In each town they passed through she asked after rumors of dragons, tracking any she could find back to their roosts. Lydia made noises about how they were helping to ensure the safety of the people of Skyrim, but Lonelily knew she understood the truth.

The Dragonborn needed their souls to fuel her power.

Now Lonelily stood on Dragonreach’s wide balcony, looking out over Ulfric’s contribution to her army. It was hardly the force of righteous freedom fighters the Stormcloaks liked to brag about; instead they were more bedraggled and broken from months of extended battle. _Still, they don’t need to survive the coming battle. This attack alone will ensure war with the Dominion, regardless of its outcome._

“Dragonborn?”

Delphine stood behind her, and Lonelily realized that she had been aware of the other woman’s presence for some time. She simply hadn’t cared. “Yes?”

Lonelily could see that the Breton was confused regarding her Dragonborn. She was in turns deferential towards her and infuriated at the elf’s lack of direct action, but throughout she tried her best to serve. While on the road between searching for Word walls Delphine had explained the history of her order and that the Thalmor had murdered the only other remaining member in the sewers below Riften. Lonelily’s only response had been to ask if her order had been so incompetent when they served Tiber Septim.

“I wanted to give you this,” Delphine said, offering a wrapped bundle. Lonelily took it, carelessly casting the linen aside. Underneath she felt cold metal; the Krosis mask. “I recovered it from the Thalmor,” Delphine explained. “I thought you would want it back.”

“Hmm,” Lonelily murmured. She regarded the mask’s indifferent expression with a measure of jealousy, and lifted it to her face. Musty, and the eye slits narrowed her vision, but she could see what mattered. She tightened the straps behind her head. “Thank you.” Her voice carried an odd resonance through the mask though oddly was in no way impeded.

“I wanted to speak with you about the Blades,” Delphine said, her expression uncertain as she tried to find Lonelily’s eyes behind the mask. “I’ve heard discussion among the armies and the people of Whiterun about you. They hold you in reverence, as if you were Talos himself returned.” Lonelily said nothing, allowing the mask to convey her thoughts. Delphine pushed on. “By your leave, I would recruit among these people. Rebuild the Blades as a force in your service.”

“If they claim to follow me, they must understand what is important. The destruction of the Thalmor, and obedience to the Green Pact.”

“I…” Delphine chose her words carefully. “I’m not familiar with the Pact.”

Lonelily turned away from her, looking back out over her Stormcloak army below. “That,” she intoned, “is your mistake.”

*

Lonelily awoke. Time had passed. The Thalmor were near.

She took in her surroundings; cold dirt below her, a canvas tent around and above her. A small, vague voice told her that the discontinuity should have disturbed her. She ignored it.

Lydia crouched next to her, hand on the elf’s shoulder. “Get up. We don’t have long. Ulfric’s scouts have spotted an approaching column of Thalmor. Five hundred strong, but most of them are mages.”

“Then we have the advantage.” Lonelily sat up, taking stock of herself. She’d evidently slept in her armor, which saved time. She cast about for the Krosis mask, and slid it into place. “Our numbers are greater than theirs.”

“That might be true, if one Altmer sorcerer weren’t worth four of our soldiers.” Lydia scowled at the mask; she hadn’t liked it when Lonelily began wearing it all the time and argued that the symbol of the old dragon priests was a poor choice for the Dragonborn. Her opinion didn’t matter.

“I will speak with my generals.” Lonelily found her bow and quiver, pushing past Lydia and into the freezing cold dawn air. The camp bustled around her, men and women running this way and that to prepare for the Thalmor’s arrival. Confusion passed over the elf for a moment as she tried to remember where Tullius and Ulfric had placed their joint command tent, but Lydia pointed her in the right direction. 

“ _Your_ generals?” Lydia asked, following closely behind.

“I speak, they obey. They are mine.”

Lydia grabbed the other woman’s arm, pulling her to a stop. “I fear for you,” she said tersely. “Even when you and I have disagreed, I have always been able to recognize the goodness in you. But I’m having a hard time seeing it now, past that mask.” 

Lonelily eyed Lydia’s hand, and chose to allow it. “The Thalmor must be destroyed.” 

“I understand that, and agree.” Lydia looked around, noticing the attention she was drawing from the soldiers. “But fighting for honor and justice is different than fighting for rage. Little good comes from rage. It won’t bring Eradan back.” 

Lonelily shrugged free. “Nothing will.”

Inside the tent, Ulfric and Tullius stood side by side, examining a map of the region. _See how easily their petty disputes are set aside?_ Neither were fond of the mask, but their opinions didn’t matter either. Lonelily thought as she looked over the map. “Report.”

“They’re coming, and in force,” Tullius answered, eyes not moving away from the map. “Marching from Solitude to meet us. Says to me they’re not certain enough in their hold over the city to meet us there. The last of my men must be making their lives difficult.”

“The Thalmor force is on the road between Solitude and Dragonbridge.” Ulfric said, tapping a spot on the map. “They will be here in a few hours.”

Lonelily nodded. “And where are we?”

“Just west of Morthal,” Lydia replied tightly. “Gathering the last of our forces.”

Lonelily’s finger traced the road between Morthal and Dragonbridge, stopping at the icon for Fort Snowhawk. “We’ll meet them on the road here.”

“That’s not a bad spot,” Tullius mused. “Closer to us than it is to them, gives us time to get in first and entrench in the fort.”

“You’re not listening,” Lonelily replied. “Not in the fort. My war will never be a defensive one. On the _road._ ”

Ulfric shook his head. “That would be suicide, Dragonborn.”

“We cannot meet the Thalmor in an open field!” Tullius rumbled. “Their skill with magic surpasses anything our battle mages can match. We _need_ to fight with every advantage we can scrape together, and that means using the fort!” 

Lonelily merely shrugged. “I’ve little interest in fighting your war if you refuse to fight mine.”

“I agreed to lead a battle, not a damned slaughter!”

Tullius turned away from the map, swearing viciously under his breath. Ulfric consulted with one of his advisors, but offered nothing to change Lonelily’s mind. _He knows nothing could._

Eventually, Lydia spoke up. “Lonelily has given us our course. It’s up to us to follow it.” Tullius only scowled, and Ulfric shook his head uncertainly. “Have faith,” she pleaded. 

“I will be at the forefront to meet the Thalmor.” Lonelily turned to Lydia. “I trust you will be by my side?”

Lydia raised her chin. “You speak, I obey.”

“Good.”

“It would be good for our soldiers to know what they’re dying for,” Tullius said. “I don’t suppose you would consent to speaking to the assembled forces?”

The elf regarded him coldly from behind Krosis. “I only have Words for the Thalmor.”

“Well then,” the general said. “No sense in making them wait for us, is there?”

Lonelily allowed him to precede her outside. Imperial and Stormcloak sergeants had assembled their forces in anticipation of the march west. As Lonelily walked past their ranks one of the Stormcloaks broke out in song. “ _Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior’s heart / I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes!_ ” Others took up the tune, and she noticed with quiet amusement that even the Imperial soldiers gave voice. “ _With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art / Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes! It’s an end to the evil of all Skyrim’s foes / Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes!_ ”

“Enough of that!” Tullius shouted. “We’ve got a battle to win. Save your breath, you’ll need it!”

Lonelily mounted her horse and set out at a trot. Lydia scrambled to mount her own horse and follow, and behind her she heard Ulfric and Tullius ordering their soldiers to move out. _No more hiding. No more waiting,_ she thought. _Finally._

*

She brought the column to a halt just past Fort Snowhawk. To her eye it was a good spot; cliff face rose to her left, and to her right and ahead the ground sloped down and away from the fort. It left a space broad enough for the armies to meet, but not so much so that the Thalmor could escape her.

Ulfric squinted in the distance, watching the Thalmor force crossed the bridge spanning the Karth River to the west. “They’ve arrived.” He cast a glance at Lonelily. “You know, Dragonborn, if you die here all this will be for naught.”

“If I die here, Alduin will destroy the world and take the Thalmor with it. Both outcomes are the same to me.” The Thalmor continued to advance until they were just close enough to hit with an arrow. _For someone else to hit with an arrow,_ Lonelily corrected herself. _I could have begun striking them dead before they reached the river._ “Stay here and wait for my signal.” 

“And what will that signal be?”

She turned back to him, the Krosis mask obscuring her irritation. “You’ll know it.”

Lydia and Delphine fell into step beside her as she made her way down the road towards the Thalmor force. “Do you plan to force their surrender?” the Breton asked.

Lonelily scoffed. “I don’t want them to surrender.”

Four hundred feet out, Lydia pointed with her ax. “Elenwen leads from the front. She and I have business.”

A shouted order came from the Thalmor sergeants, and as one their archers and mages readied their attacks. “She means to offer you no opportunity,” Lonelily commented drily.

Another command and the air _thrummed_ with a hundred bowstrings letting fly and twice as many spells burning towards them. Lydia and Delphine both raised their shields, and Lonelily only whispered “ _Tiid Klo Ul._ ” 

Time itself stretched to a crawl, and Lonelily allowed herself a cruel smile. Lydia drifted slowly to place herself between the elf and the coming onslaught. The arrows, normally faster than the eye could see, now moved with all the lazy haste of a leaf blowing on the wind. Lonelily batted aside a few that looked to make it past Lydia’s guard and made her way towards the Thalmor’s ranks, edging past a slowly-roiling fireball.

She allowed time to continue at its normal pace as she stopped in front of Elenwen, relishing the look of dumbfounded surprise on the Altmer’s face. The soldiers behind her readied their weapons, but Elenwen waved them to stillness. “Well. This is a surprise.” 

“You took my family from me,” Lonelily snarled. “You turned my son against his own people. You broke my husband’s will. I wanted you to know, before you die, that I will return those insults a thousand times over. To you and to your entire Dominion.”

“Will you now,” Elenwen replied drolly. She pulled her thick fur coat tighter over her shoulders. “You’re one broken, backwards little Bosmer. The little army you’ve arranged is insignificant in the broader view. How could you hope to challenge the power of the Aldmeri Dominion? Who do you think you are?”

“Who am I?” Lonelily snarled. “I am Sidra, of Falinesti. Lonelily and keeper of the Green Pact!” Her voice rose, shaking with rage. “ _I_ am who dragons fear. In their tongue, I am _Dovahkiin._ The _Dragonborn! Gaan Lah Haas!_ ”

Lonelily’s Shout washed over the Thalmor soldiers, echoing against the cliff face and coaxing both the magical and mortal energies from them. Elenwen’s golden face went ashen as she felt the magicka drain away from her body. _Let’s see your vaunted mages fight now!_ Fear rippled through the Thalmor formation as the Aldmeri realized what she had stolen from them.

Elenwen turned and bolted back into the ranks of her soldiers, and Lonelily bounded after her with murderous determination.

Behind them, the Stormcloak and Imperial soldiers charged with a roar, racing down the hill to clash against the Thalmor’s front line. Lonelily heard the crash of metal on metal and the screams of people dying, but _none of it mattered_ when she could see Elenwen pushing through her own soldiers to escape. An Altmer with a sword tried to bar Lonelily’s path and she vaulted over him, launching an arrow into the traitor Bosmer behind him. She landed next to his body as he collapsed, only to stumble as another Thalmor threw himself bodily into her. Lonelily went down in a tumble of limbs, her bow lost in the commotion, and all she could see around her was the gold of Altmeri armor. _No. No, not when I’m so close!_ The Altmer trapped her against the ground as another readied her warhammer. 

“ _No!_ ” A blur of motion knocked the man restraining her aside, and another interposed herself between Lonelily and the warhammer. Lydia grunted as the blow landed hard against her shield, sparing a moment to glance down at the elf. “Are you all right?”

Lonelily rolled to her feet and continued after Elenwen without a word, Lydia and Delphine struggling to keep up and block the soldiers from her. She caught a glimpse of the emissary’s robes, and _leapt,_ tackling the other woman and driving her to the ground. Elenwen fought, but her strength was nothing against Lonelily’s fury. Lonelily pinned the Altmer down and tore the Krosis mask from her face, revealing a rictus of utter malevolence. “ _FUS RO DAH!_ ” 

Caught between unyielding flagstones and unrelenting force, Elenwen’s cruel, brutal life ended in a cruel, brutal manner.

Lonelily sat back on her knees, staring at the bloody mess sprayed out across the road before her. Lydia and Delphine warded off the Thalmor soldiers who surrounded them, but it was a redundant action. Despite the battle raging all around them, no one dared approach the Dragonborn. She rose to her feet, watching the carnage of swirl around her with a faint smile curving her lips. 

_It’s a good start._


	14. Chapter 14

“ _Ahh!_ ”

Lydia surged up from the bed, straining against the strong hands of the Orsimer who held her in place. _Pain_ radiated through her, and she cast her eyes around frantically to catch a hint of her whereabouts. The room was of Nordic stone construction, and filled wall to wall with men and mer on cots like hers.

“Solitude?” she panted.

“Indeed,” the Orsimer grunted, relaxing his grip. He was dressed in robes, she noticed, and wore the crest of the Imperial Legion. “In the infirmary. What’s the last thing you recall?”

 _I remember battle._ Lydia sagged against the cushion. Keeping up with Lonelily’s reckless charge had been difficult, and protecting her from harm forced Lydia into several poor positions. Her body _throbbed_ , and beneath the thin infirmary gown she saw her skin was dark with deep bruises. Lydia noticed her armor, piled neatly at her bedside. _Looks as bad as I feel._

The image of Lonelily’s faint smile as she sat straddling Elenwen’s mangled corpse haunted Lydia. With the Thalmor force defeated, the combined Stormcloak and Imperial army marched on to Solitude and claimed the city little resistance. Though Solitude had been built to withstand a siege, the Altmer had no chance of resisting the assault from with the Nord and Imperial citizens inside the walls making any proper defense impossible. Lonelily’s attention had wandered after the battle, and soon after they reached Solitude she disappeared entirely. Lydia had searched the woods outside of town for her until the grinding pain in her leg forced her to sit down and rest. Apparently a longer rest than she’d intended.

“Where’s Lonelily?” she demanded.

The Orsimer scowled, his tusks adding to his look of displeasure as he waved off her question. “I don’t know anyone by that name. What was the last thing you recall?”

“Lonelily. The _Dragonborn._ Why does no one call her by her name?” Lydia sat up, swinging her legs off the bed. “I was looking for her, I have to-” She wavered as her stomach twisted in on itself, threatening to force its contents back up. “…oh.”

“Lie down,” the Orsimer directed gruffly. He leaned close, peering into her eyes. “You feel sick? Having trouble focusing your eyes?”

Lydia stopped herself from nodding in response. _I’m not a callow child. I know what it feels like to take a blow to the head._ “Yes.”

He produced a small package from his robes. “Here. Chew these.” She peeled open the wrapping to reveal blue mountain flower petals, and started on them. “When you were brought here you had a cracked leg bone, several broken ribs and apparently a concussion. We did what we could for you. I don’t know anything about where the Dragonborn might be.”

Mindful of her injuries, Lydia sat up with more care. “Thank you for your aid.” She tentatively put her feet on the ground and stood, uncertainly at first and then with confidence when she didn’t vomit. The Orsimer looked her over with a critical eye and shrugged, apparently deciding that she was well enough to walk out and therefore less important than his other patients. 

“There’s a change of clothing by the bed,” he called over his shoulder. “Leave your armor, I’ll have it sent to the blacksmith to be repaired.” 

Lydia pulled the gown over her head, gritting her teeth as the motion revealed a new pain in her back. She dressed quickly and made her way carefully outside. 

She’d never much cared for Solitude; the city had a spirit of haughtiness to it, owing to its position as Skyrim’s capital. Today though, the feeling in the air was different. _Victory has a way of doing that._ The thoroughfare outside was crowded with a bustle of people who a scant week beforehand had been trying to kill each other and now celebrated together. Lydia moved through the riot of color; Stormcloak blue, Imperial brown and red, purple and white of the Riften and Winterhold militias and even a smattering of green for the few poor survivors of Markarth. They indulged in meat and mead together, chattering on happily and content with the Thalmor’s defeat. _I’ll never find her in this. She’s too short to stand out in a crowd like this._

A flash of yellow caught her eye near the apothecary. _Whiterun’s color. Who…?_ Lydia made her way towards it as best she could, pausing to catch her balance more than once and wishing the flower petals would ameliorate her discomfort more quickly. 

“…at’s why you always bring another weapon.” Lydia’s eyes shot open at the familiar voice and she lurched forward. The crowd parted for her and she found Uthgerd with Idolaf Battle-Born and Irileth loitering outside the shop. Uthgerd stood with a relaxed ease that had fled her after her fateful duel before the Companions. Something tightened in her chest as Uthgerd gave Idolaf a genuine smile. “Can’t expect the elves to just give you one of theirs.”

Lydia felt herself mirroring the smile. _She came. She fought._

Irileth caught sight of her and spoke her name, but the Dunmer was outside of Lydia’s attention. She crossed the distance between herself and Uthgerd, clutching the other woman by the shoulders and looking her over. Her armor was battered and her yellow tabard was stained dark with blood, but she was alive. “I trust,” Lydia said, emotion catching her voice in her throat, “that you found worthy opponents among the Altmer?”

“They fought decently,” Uthgerd replied. “Heard the Dragonborn was raising an army, and…I couldn’t just sit at the bar and drink, could I? Someone told me that we’re judged by our actions.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Lydia said with a wane smile. She gathered Uthgerd up in a tight embrace. _I’m glad you’ve found yourself._

Irileth cleared her throat significantly. “Uthgerd.”

“I know,” Uthgerd said, and pulled away. “Lydia? You’d best come with me.”

Lydia allowed Uthgerd to take her by the hand and lead her away. They made their way through Solitude’s streets, and Lydia felt fear settle in the pit of her stomach as she recognized the Hall of the Dead before them. “Whiterun raised a militia to join the Dragonborn’s war,” Uthgerd explained, holding open the Hall’s door for Lydia. Inside, a half-dozen priests of Arkay went about the grim task of preparing the battle’s fallen soldiers for burial. “Not the largest, or the best equipped. But we fought with unmatched fervor. Your father saw to that.”

They made their way down a row of stone slabs in silence. Heimskr lay at the end, his face smooth with a peace he rarely had in life. Lydia knelt on the ground, her hands resting on the edge of the slab but not quite able to bring herself to touch the body. “What the Dragonborn said…it stayed with him. He railed at us for our complacency, condemned the milk-drinkers. By the time we met the elves in battle, he’d whipped us all into such a frenzy that we would have fought naked.” 

_Oh, father,_ Lydia thought, examining the body. _Finally putting steel to your words._ His wounds, she saw, were all to the front. A good death.

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” Uthgerd said, turning away. Consternation crossed her expression. “I grieve his loss.”

Lydia caught her wrist. “Stay. Please?”

Uthgerd sat crosslegged next to her, laying her arm across Lydia’s shoulders and hugging her tightly. Lydia pressed her forehead against the slab, feeling the confusing mix of relief and sorrow wash over her. _We’ll meet again, father. We’ll meet again in Sovngarde._

*

It was well past noon before Lydia was able to leave the Hall. The priests would make the necessary arrangements for Heimskr’s burial, and Lydia knew she was of little use crying by his side. Lonelily was still missing.

Lydia outright rejected the idea that Lonelily had fled Skyrim. It was true that the elf had little concern for the fate of Skyrim, but she had also given her word that she would help to defeat Alduin. _Then again, when we first met she also told me that she ‘had to say her goodbyes’ and tried to flee to Hammerfell,_ Lydia thought grimly. The simple truth was that if she had chosen to disappear, there was no way Lydia could find her. 

That she was known as the Dragonborn’s Thane opened many doors for her. A year ago it would have been unthinkable to demand an audience with Jarl Stormcloak, let alone receive one, but she soon found herself standing in the Palace’s throne room before Skyrim’s greatest hero and Solitude’s Jarl Elisif. Elisif had been allowed to keep her throne, but Lydia sensed that it was a concession Ulfric had made under duress; for her money any Jarl who willingly turned her city over to the Thalmor was fit only for the executioner’s block.

“I seek Lonelily,” Lydia explained, looking between the Jarls. “We became separated after the battle and I need to rejoin her.”

“She’s not spoken to me,” Ulfric replied, “though I think she may feel that such a small thing as reporting to her liege is beneath her.”

“Perhaps the Dragonborn has gone to do battle with Alduin,” Elisif opined. 

Lydia ignored the woman’s naivety. “If she returns here, please tell her I’m looking for her.”

Ulfric nodded. Lydia turned to go, but he stopped her with a word. “Housecarl. I did as she asked. Allied with the Empire and provoked a war with the Thalmor that could well be the end of all Skyrim. Will she uphold her end of the bargain?”

Uncertainty wavered in Lydia’s mind, but as Lonelily’s Housecarl there was only one response available to her. Even if it was a lie. “My Thane is an honorable woman, Jarl Stormcloak, and beyond reproach.”

“Of course.” Ulfric’s disbelief was plain in his tone. 

Lydia excused herself, leaving the throne room and making her way out of the Blue Palace. _What’s a Housecarl without her Thane?_ she wondered. It was hardly unprecedented. The bards told a tale of Oveic the Awful, who abandoned his position in Dawnstar along with a sizable manor and his Housecarl to chase after some Breton harlot. It was no fault of Oveic’s Housecarl, but what does one _do_ when they dedicate their life to another only to be forgotten entirely? On that the bards were silent.

They also had little to say about stopping Alduin without the Dragonborn.

While her thoughts were pensively inwardly-focused, Lydia wasn’t so distracted that she was unaware of her surroundings. As she passed the Bard’s College, a man passed her by. He was unremarkable; his face common and his clothes the same drab linins and leathers that were apparently fashionable in Solitude. It was the sigil stitched to his tunic that caught her attention. A tree with broad foliage flanked on either side by curved swords, and though the swords were small Lydia recognized them as stylized representations of the Akaviri sword Delphine carried.

 _That sigil. He knows something._ “You,” she snapped, grabbing the man’s arm. “Take me to Lonelily.”

He sneered back at her. “I don’t know you.”

Lydia shifted her grip, slamming him up against the wall. “Would you like to?”

“Stand away.” Two other men approached, each bearing the tree-and-swords sigil. “Do not tempt the wrath of the Keepers of the Pact.”

Lydia released the man. “I need to speak with Lonelily.”

“After threatening one of ours? No.” The man laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Be wise. Walk away.”

Behind him, Lonelily emerged from one of the houses. The elf’s eyes looked but didn’t seem to see, and she turned away from the confrontation. “Lonelily!” Lydia shouted. She tried to step around the Keepers, but found her way barred by drawn steel. “Out of my way! Lonelily!”

The Keeper shoved Lydia back, and she retaliated viciously. He reeled back with blood flowing freely from his nose, but the other two were on her in an instant.

“ _Kaan Drem Ov._ ”

Lydia struggled to keep her anger as placid peacefulness draped over her like a blanket. Her fists relaxed, and the Keepers stood back. She watched Lonelily approach, her expression flickering from indifference to recognition to curiosity. “Lydia?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Lydia replied, trying to remember why she’d been so angry a moment ago. “Where have you been?”

“Not far. Delphine asked to introduce me to my first followers.” Her gesture encompassed the men. 

“You have followers?” Lydia asked. _Or do you have a cult?_

“Of course,” Lonelily replied, head cocked to the side as if amused it was a question at all. “Come with me.”

She turned to leave at that, and Lydia scrambled to keep up with the smaller woman’s pace. “We need to talk,” she said. “Alduin…”

“The dragon isn’t important,” Lonelily cut her off. “He’ll die. Don’t worry.” 

They mounted the steps leading up to Castle Dour. “I do worry,” Lydia snapped. “You’ve been distant since Eradan died. _Strange._ I want to help. Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Lonelily replied. “Events only move forward.”

“And they grow from what came before. Lonelily, you’re scaring me.” The elf refused to look at Lydia. “You _forced_ me to calm down with your Shout. That isn’t _right._ ”

“It was expedient.”

Lydia had no reply to that. They crossed the castle’s courtyard in silence, trailed by the three Keepers. Lonelily stopped before one of the broad wooden doors, her eyes closed as if gathering her strength. “You once called me your friend. Please, let me be that friend now.”

Lonelily glanced over her shoulder to the Keepers. “Stay,” she commanded. She opened the door and descended the stairs, gesturing Lydia to follow. 

They emerged into Castle Dour’s dungeon. Dozens of Thalmor hung from the chains on the walls or huddled in cages, awaiting interrogation, torture or death. Lonelily swept past them, opening the door to one of the secluded stone cells and allowing Lydia to enter before closing the door behind them.

Linis sat strapped to a chair at the center of the room. Lydia took stock of the room; sharp knives, thumb screws, branding irons…all of the implements of interrogation were present, but the boy seemed to be relatively unharmed. Delphine stood out of his view behind him, arms crossed over her chest and scowling. Linis looked up as they entered, and his green-tinted skin paled at the sight of Lonelily. He shook himself and turned a condescending glare to Lydia. 

“Back for a rematch, Nord?”

Lydia shrugged. “I think you and I have each other’s measure. No need to waste everyone else’s time by beating you senseless again.”

Lonelily approached him, pulling a chair from the wall and sitting so close their knees almost touched. Linis strained to pull away, to escape, but his bindings held him fast. Lydia watched Lonelily’s face as her mouth worked, trying to draw out her question. “Was your father happy? After I left?”

“What?” Linis sneered at her. “You want to ask about our home life?”

“Answer me.”

He growled lowly. “How could he be _happy?_ His wife was a dissident. The Thalmor would never trust his intentions. I did what I could for him, but you well made sure that he wouldn’t ever be _happy._ ”

Lonelily accepted that. “And…and yourself? What do you do?”

“I serve,” Linis snapped. “I know the consequence of disobedience to the Dominion. I saw how it broke my father. So I fulfill my duty to the Thalmor. They ordered me to learn the art of alchemy, so I did. They ordered me to come to this frozen hell to trap a dissident, so I left my wife and baby behind and I came here.”

“I have a grandchild?” Lonelily breathed.

“The Justiciars say that dissidents don’t have families, only victims.”

Lonelily sat back in her chair, regarding Linis for a long moment. Lydia expected a furious outburst, a fit of violence, but instead Lonelily only set her jaw. “I think,” she intoned, “that if you spent any time outside of the Dominion, you would find that the Justiciars are wrong about a great many things.” She rose from the chair, staring down at him coldly. “I will tell you what is to be done with you. As a source of information, you are useless. You were little more than a pet to Elenwen, and she hardly would have entrusted you with anything of importance. And given that you aren’t Altmer, chances of the Dominion bothering to make an exchange for you are negligible.” 

Lydia could see in Linis’ eyes that he knew she spoke the truth. “That is…it’s understandable.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Rather than spend the rest of your short life in a Nord dungeon, I am going to make use of you.” Lonelily gestured to Delphine. “My Blade has procured a ship, and one of my Keepers will escort you back to the Summerset Isles. I want you to tell the Thalmor everything. Tell them that I am coming.”

Lonelily stepped back as Delphine clamped manacles on Linis’ wrists and ankles before freeing him from the chair. He rose without a struggle and allowed himself to be led to the door, only stopping when Lonelily spoke again. “You were right about one thing, boy. You have no mother.”

Delphine pushed him out into the hall ahead of her, and Lydia pulled the door closed behind them. Lonelily’s hand covered her mouth as she stared blindly at his chair. “Oh gods,” she whispered. 

Lydia laid her hand on the elf’s shoulder, and Lonelily turned to bury her face against the other woman’s chest. She gave a deep wracking sob as Lydia held her close. Eventually her shoulders stopped shaking and Lonelily pulled away, wiping at her eyes. She dug through her pack, producing the Krosis mask and sliding it over her face. 

“Please. Don’t hide behind that thing,” Lydia pleaded. But Lonelily only regarded her from behind the mask, its blank expression rendering her both anonymous and malevolent.

After a moment Lonelily spoke, and her voice was almost level. “Whiterun.”

“What about it?”

“We’re returning there. Just one short stop, before the one last task.” She walked past Lydia. “It’s time to destroy Alduin.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief dictionary of the dragon language can be found at the [Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Dragon_Language) wiki.

A crowd followed Lonelily as she left Solitude. Delphine explained that they were not Blades or Keepers, but individuals dedicated to the battle against Alduin. Lonelily recognized a few of them; a soldier here and there, a few people from Whiterun, and Angi, the archer she met soon after arriving in Skyrim. It was acceptable to have traveling company, though all of them were ultimately irrelevant. 

Lonelily recognized that she stood in the city of Whiterun itself, though most of the journey was lost to her. _That must be…days, or weeks of travel across Skyrim,_ she mused, unconcerned. The sun was high in the sky, now. Lydia was talking at her, speaking with the tone of someone exhausted from repeating herself. “…need a _plan,_ Lonelily. We can’t expect to match the Worldeater by force of arms alone.”

“What more could be needed than the Dragonborn?” Lonelily asked rhetorically. Delphine opened Dragonreach’s main door for before her and Lonelily strode inside. 

Balgruuf stood from his throne as she approached. “I expect your war went well?”

The elf ignored him, trusting Delphine or Lydia or one of the others to say the appropriate soothing words. She made her way to Farengar’s chambers. “Mage. I want the Elder Scroll I left in your care.”

“Of course!” Farengar replied. “You know, I’ve taken the opportunity to research both the Scrolls and Alduin himself. You mentioned that you were searching for a Moth Priest, to help interpret the Scroll…”

“That doesn’t matter anymore.” Lonelily hefted the Elder Scroll, handing it to Lydia. “We are going to High Hrothgar. I will defeat Alduin there.”

“How do you _know_ that?” Lydia demanded. “The Greybeard said that the heroes of old used some sort of special Shout to defeat Alduin, we need to learn…”

“Never trust those with power, Lydia,” Lonelily replied evenly.

“She is Dragonborn,” Delphine said, scowling at Lydia. “Alduin’s defeat at her hands is _inevitable._ This is the battle Talos sent her to us for.”

“He’s near. I can…feel him.” Lonelily turned to leave, brushing past Balgruuf and making her way outside. Three dragons wheeled across the sky overhead, cutting through the clouds. The largest let out a bellowing roar and turned south and east, towards Hrothgar. “It’s time. We leave. Now.”

Lonelily took a horse from the stables outside, ignoring the owner’s uncertain fear as she rode past him. She followed the road to the east, the others kept up with her as best they could. The sun was beginning to dip by the time they reached Ivarstead. 

“Do you hear that?” Delphine asked. “It sounds like thunder at the top of the mountain.”

“There’s a storm of a different sort going on up there,” Lydia replied. “What you’re hearing is dragon _Thu’um._ ” 

Motion was apparent far above at the summit; Lonelily shielded her eyes against the low sun’s glare and saw the form of a dragon falling, tumbling down the side of the mountain. It brought a small avalanche with it as it came to a crashing halt, flattening most of the Fellstar farm. 

The beast’s flank rose and fell spasmodically, and low, pained wheezes issued from its nostrils. As Lonelily approached, she could see the dragon’s serpentine neck was twisted unnaturally far. “Paarthurnax,” she murmured.

“ _Dovahkiin,_ ” the dragon rumbled. “ _Krosis, briinah._ I tried to stop him, but his Thu’um… _Alduin thur._ I’m afraid…there is but one thing I have left to offer you.” Paarthurnax’s eyes lost their focus, and the unnatural fire swiftly began to consume his body as life fled him.

“By the Nine,” Delphine breathed.

Paarthurnax’s soul exploded outward, arching towards the sky before being drawn inevitably back to Lonelily. The memories he gave her before were small, pale things compared to the entirety of five thousand years of his experiences crashing into her all at once. Lonelily collapsed to her knees. _So much!_

Lonelily forced her mind clear and craned her neck up. Through the mist that clung to Hrothgar, she could just make out three dragons peering down back at her. The largest let out a bark and the other two launched themselves from the summit, diving for the assembled forces below.

“Archers at the ready!” Lydia bellowed. At her command Angi and a dozen others notched their bows, angling up at the rapidly approaching dragons. “And aim true,” Lonelily heard the Nord whisper.

Lonelily walked to meet them in an unconcerned stroll, Delphine trotting at her heels. “Dragonborn, you should…you shouldn’t be so close. You could-”

“Be silent.” The dragons were scant hundred feet above, diving fast, and Lonelily filled her lungs. “ _Iiz Slen Nus!_ ”

The Shout struck the closer dragon, encasing it entirely in ice and sending it plummeting to the ground. Delphine rushed ahead to finish the beast, but it was wasted effort; Lonelily saw its body shatter as it impacted the ground. Its companion gave a shriek of surprise, pulling up and away in surprise.

“Fire!” Lydia screamed. Arrow after arrow struck home in the wyrm’s flesh, piercing its leathery wings and driving it down. The dragon reared up, bellowing and spewing a stream of fire across the collected followers.

“Lydia,” Lonelily said lowly. “See to it.” 

Lydia nodded. “For Skyrim!” She raced towards the beast, charging past the burning men and woman. A brave few leapt after her and in moments the dragon found itself assailed from all sides, tiny weapons of steel and orichalcum prying at its scales. It screeched, desperate as a sword blow rent the leathery membrane of its wing. A handful of followers died under its talons, but their deaths served only to distract the dragon: it snapped at one of the Legion soldiers, catching him in its jaws, and Lydia took the opening to bound atop its flat head. She braced herself against its horns and brought her ax down again and again, hacking at its skull until the beast shivered and subsided.

Lonelily opened her arms wide as both dragons expired, sending tendrils of energy spiraling towards her. Their souls surged through her and she _laughed_ at the power they carried with them.

Far, far above Alduin mantled his massive black wings and roared. “ _Dov Ah Kiin!_ ”

“Wait your turn, beast,” she intoned. “I’m coming.”

*

The air was frigid cold and burned Lonelily’s lungs, but she found she didn’t mind. Or more to the point, it didn’t matter. The cold that had left her a shivering wreck a few short weeks ago simply dissipated against the searing energy of the dragon’s souls coiling with in her. Some dim voice within her whimpered that something about it wasn’t _right,_ but the energy scorched the plaintive cries away.

“Our best plan is a head-on engagement,” Delphine said, her breath misting out in front of her. “Hit Alduin as quickly and brutally as possible.”

Even through her dull inattention, Lonelily could see Lydia’s patience with the Breton was wearing thin. “This isn’t a preening Justiciar we’re talking about here. Strategy…”

“…don’t matter now,” Lonelily replied. The tube containing the Elder Scroll pressed against her back, and she tugged the strap across her chest tight. “We’ll follow Delphine’s plan as a distraction and I will deal with Alduin.”

Overhead, a pillar of smoke reached for the sky. Lonelily assumed Alduin had taken to amusing himself with the Greybeards. They crested the last rise, revealing the ruined monastery, and Lonelily heard a gasp go up behind her. Nords and their superstitious reverence. They were fools if they expected anything other than slaughter.

“Steady,” she snapped at the crowd of Nords and Imperials arrayed behind her. “Delphine and Lydia will lead you. Do as they do.”

A low rumble rolled over them, and as it repeated Lonelily recognized it for laughter. “ _Dovahkiin. Morah hin bovulaan._ ” The rubble of the monastery shifted, and Alduin rose from his nest. Delphine stepped back as the beast rose to his full height, peering down at them with malevolent mirth.

Lonelily refused to be threatened by Alduin’s proximity. “ _Ni voth nonvul keini fundein. Dovahhe fen ni denek keini, wuth diiv,_ ” she replied. “You’re an _afterthought,_ Alduin.”

“When did she learn to speak dragon?” Lydia asked lowly.

“ _Frini!_ ” Alduin shouted. “Not an afterthought, _Dovahkiin._ The _final_ thought.” He leapt to his feet and lunged forward, snapping his jaws. Lonelily dodged nimbly away and before she could order her followers forward Lydia surged forward, slamming her shield against the dragon’s snout. 

“Set upon him!” Lonelily roared, swinging the Elder Scroll off her back. Delphine led the followers in a charge, only to scatter as Alduin swiped his fearsome claws at them. _Only three dead. Good,_ Lonelily thought as she pulled open the case’s fasteners. 

Lydia fought in a frenzy, her weapon crashing against the Worldeater’s armored scales again and again. Alduin shook a body free of his claws and swipe at her lazily. She ducked underneath, slamming her ax against Alduin’s jaw and chipping one of his needle-pointed teeth. With a cry of victory Lydia readied her arm for another blow, only to realize the bemused gleam in Alduin’s eye. “What,” he asked, shifting a massive arm to trap Lydia between it and his fearsome jaws, “do you possibly hope to accomplish with this display, mortal?”

“Frost and storm, monster,” the Nord whispered. Then, louder and with her blade drawn back to strike: “For Tamriel! For Skyrim! For Lonelily!”

The dragon opened his maw wide, but before he could strike Lonelily pulled the Elder Scroll free, yanking a length of the strangely-textured parchment out and holding it aloft, bellowing: “ _Alduin!_ ”

He turned towards her with languidness born of invulnerability, but that confidence evaporated as he caught sight of the twisting eldritch symbols. “ _Tahrodiis kel! Govey nii, uth!_ ”

“No, Alduin!” Lonelily snarled. “Look at it. Stare into eternity.” 

The dragon thrashed away from her, trying to duck his head away from the sight of the Scroll but Lonelily came closer to keep it before his eyes. Lydia stood slack-jawed, mesmerized by the images dancing across the Scroll until a woman in a yellow tabard knocked her to the ground and covered her eyes. _If it has even half that effect on Alduin, this battle is over,_ Lonelily thought.

Slowly Alduin’s thrashing subsided, and he simply stared transfixed at the bizarre icons. “The Moth Priests spend years preparing themselves for a _glimpse_ at an Elder Scroll, Alduin. And compared to the Scrolls…you’re no bigger than those priests, are you?” The wyrm could only grunt, and though the Krosis mask remained impassive as ever Lonelily felt an elated fury surge through her. “Tell me,” she hissed. “Tell me, Alduin. Before the blindness takes you, before the madness and the emptiness overwhelm you. What do you see?”

“ _Krent fahliil los staadnau,_ ” he murmured, “ _ahrk taazokaan los daanik._ ”

“No. Not broken.” Lonelily’s lip twisted into a snarl behind her mask. “Not anymore, and never again.”


	16. Chapter 16

She knew a little bit of _everything._

Lydia stared down at the bowl of stew in her lap. She could see the chunks of meat, and the life of the deer they’d come from, and how he would have lived on if he hadn’t been slaughtered for her meal. She saw the water that made up the broth, and how it had been a cloud once. 

“Lydia?”

Uthgerd sat next to her, hand on her shoulder and a (worried/elated/furious) expression on her face. _The ambiguity is unsettling,_ Lydia decided.

“It prefers being a cloud,” she said to reassure the other woman, “but it is content to be here.”

Uthgerd didn’t seem reassured, and for a moment Lydia couldn’t decide if they were laying naked in her bed or around a campfire at the foot of High Hrothgar. _They rolled Alduin down the mountain,_ she remembered. _Brought him down to earth, with the rest of us._ Sure enough, the insensible beast lay not far away, heaving his last tortured breaths. 

“Eat. You need food,” Uthgerd urged. She brushed a hand soothingly through Lydia’s (smooth and shoulder-length/burned and chopped-short) hair. “I’m…I’m going to find one of these Moth Priests. They’ll be able to set your mind right.” An endless stream of possibilities flitted across Lydia’s awareness and she groped for them, knocking her bowl over and trying to impede the flow of images enough to understand what she saw. None of what she perceived matched Uthgerd’s hopes, and Lydia decided not to tell her that.

Across the fire, Lonelily sat with her followers. Delphine sat beside her, as close as she thought Lonelily would allow, reverence shining in her eyes. The fire had been built around Alduin’s enormous heart, the thick blood sizzling as flames seared the flesh. Though none of those who followed Lonelily understood the meaning of the Green Pact, all of them had begun to follow its tenets to appease their (savior/leader/god). Lonelily led them in feasting from the heart, her Krosis mask discarded and blood smeared across her lips and chin. “The ancient Nords did their best to record the dragon tongue, with their Word walls. But even those are just a collection of phrases. Imagine: if my _Thu’um_ has such power by whispering just a word, what could I do by holding a conversation?”

“Dragonborn, Alduin…” Delphine began. The massive beast let out is final, shuddering breath as he expired. 

Lonelily smiled bloodily and rose, crossing the distance between the fire and the defeated dragon. Lydia winced as the wyrm shimmered and suddenly exploded with tendrils of light, arcing through the air until they finally settled within the elf. It didn’t make sense. The dragon broke, Lydia could see, but the Dragon did not Break. The symbolism was confounding. Had Lonelily already caused the Break? Or would that be later?

Lonelily turned back to her devotees, radiant with her nimbus of stolen soul, and for a moment Lydia was blinded with an image of not-now. A woman trod on ground shot through with crystal slivers; the ruin of regal Altmer towers. Screams of fleeing elves filled the air, but there was nowhere to flee. Summer had set, but still she was not finished. Not nearly. Though the conflagration around the woman obscured her expression, Lydia could _feel_ the vicious satisfaction as she surveyed the desolation around her. In that instant the vision blurred with the reality before her, and Lydia knew the woman.

Lonelily.

Pactkeeper.

Dragonborn.

Worldeater.


End file.
